


I'm Guided by a Signal in the Heavens

by LadyJanus



Series: Dance Me To The End Of Love [2]
Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Adult Content, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s01e02 Battle at the Binary Stars, F/F, Fix-It, Philippa Georgiou doesn't die
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2019-03-30 14:54:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 34,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13953987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanus/pseuds/LadyJanus
Summary: Philippa Georgiou is no longer guided by Starfleet …





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomisunrider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomisunrider/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I own nothing but my words and a bit of plot. Star Trek: Discovery belongs to Gene Roddenberry's estate and heirs, CBS, Paramount Studios and whoever else owns bits and pieces of the Star Trek franchise.
> 
> Spoilers: To "Battle at the Binary Stars" and, since this is a sequel my fix-it story "Oh, Let Me See Your Beauty When the Witnesses Are Gone", everything beyond that episode is definitely alternate universe, although the later episodes may inform on the story. The title is from the song "First We Take Manhattan" by the incomparable Leonard Cohen.
> 
> For nomisunrider, for your inspiration and all your encouragement through my first foray into Star Trek: Discovery fandom!

Captain Philippa Georgiou studied her senior officers as they stood before her.

 

Her towering Kelpien first officer, Commander Saru, was definitely confused and feeling threatened by her sudden late-night summons to her ready room, but then that was a natural and near-constant state of being for his species—evolved from prey as they were. The only Kelpien in Starfleet, that the threat ganglia at the base of his skull were not everted, spoke volumes about his trust in Philippa, even when she made him feel vulnerable.

 

Lieutenant Commander Airiam, the ship’s spore drive operations officer and chief science officer, was Saru’s opposite in almost every way, exhibiting no emotion whatsoever. Small, self-contained and nearly imperturbable, she was of a cybernetically augmented Human sub-species from a world colonised during the pre-warp push into space immediately after Earth’s devastating third World War. Her people had been synthetically created to make life _easier_ for Humans on a less-than-hospitable ice planet where their colony ship had crash-landed after an encounter with an unstable subspace phenomenon had dragged them off course and much further from Earth than a sublight ship should have been able to travel.

 

 _Read: Humanity on Meigen Four had deliberately created a slave class to do all the_ shit _they didn’t want to do or deemed too dangerous for_ true Humans _to risk their lives doing._

 

When they’d been rediscovered fifty years ago, the Meigenites had been reluctant to give up their _‘Synths’_ in order to join the Federation; only the threat of the Klingons—Meigen Four having the misfortune of being less than twenty light years from the Klingon border—had frightened them into _officially_ doing so.

 

Most of the Meigen Fire Dancers—as the former slaves had named themselves in honour of their origins maintaining the great furnaces that kept the Meigenite cities livable, or mining in highly radioactive areas—had immediately migrated to other Human worlds, including Earth, creating their own unique societies and cultures along the way. Airiam, of Earth’s Cloud Dancer Clan, was one of only about a dozen Fire Dancers in Starfleet.

 

Lieutenant Commander Hugh Culber, Philippa’s chief medical officer, was also confused, but had a wonderful serenity that very few things outside his sickbay could disturb. One of which being his partner, Lieutenant Paul Stamets, _Discovery’s_ chief engineer, who—right now—was simply annoyed … no doubt because Philippa had had the _temerity_ to disturb his work. Although physically in her ready room, she knew that Stamets’ quicksilver mind was down in engineering and the spore lab, running through his latest experiment on _Discovery’s_ prototype displacement-activated spore hub drive.

 

Lastly, Philippa’s gaze landed on the impassive face of Commander Ellen Landry, her chief of security and chief tactical officer. She’d come highly recommended by Philippa’s old friend, Commodore Farzaneh Paris, the Director of Starfleet’s Bureau of Personnel, and by Landry’s previous commander, Captain Gabriel Lorca. However, no matter how much she’d tried to engage her, Philippa found her new security chief remained a rather _cold fish_.

 

And given the sickening discovery Philippa had made, just that evening, in the quarters of her former first officer, Michael Burnham—and her beloved—it was obvious that Landry’s loyalty lay elsewhere … _outside_ the starship _Discovery_ and Captain Philippa Georgiou. It didn’t take a genius to know where that loyalty might truly lie; Gabriel Lorca had lobbied hard for command of one of Starfleet’s newest and most advanced science ships, but with his diagnosis of a degenerative eye condition, Farzaneh Paris wasn’t about to hand a valuable asset like _Discovery_ or, her sister ship, the _USS Glenn_ , over to a _blind man!_ She’d quite rightly shunted him into to a quiet desk job—ostensibly with Fleet Security—but Landry’s covert access to a specific, and _classified_ , gold channel subspace communications relay, had suggested to Philippa that Lorca had actually been transferred to _Fleet Intelligence_ , with Security as his cover.

 

 _Which makes what Landry has done all the more sinister and begs the question of why Lorca had her violate Michael’s privacy in such a gross and unforgivable way. Well, I’ll get to the bottom of this tonight, even if I have to throw her out an_ airlock _myself!_

 

#


	2. Chapter 2

Philippa gestured to the small meeting table and chairs, beneath the viewport opposite her desk. “My apologies for the late summons,” she said pleasantly. “If you’ll take your seats, we can get through this quickly and you can return to your evening’s pursuits.”

 

As they all settled down, she took a few moments longer to compose herself. “I will cut to the chase,” she said, taking her own seat at the head of the oval table. “Tomorrow’s senior briefing at 0800 hours has been cancelled. Instead, Commander Saru, there will be a briefing in engineering for all senior officers and bridge personnel; the entire engineering team, Lieutenant Stamets; and any science personnel or teams you deem necessary, Lieutenant Commander Airiam.”

 

“Of course, captain,” both Saru and Airiam answered almost simultaneously.

 

“I will see to it that alpha and beta shift personnel are present and have gamma shift remain on duty to the end of the briefing,” Saru added. “But they will follow along over the comm system.”

 

“What is this about, captain?” Stamets bristled impatiently. “A number of my teams have very delicate, very important experiments currently running—you can’t be interrupting—”

 

 _“Paul! Enough!”_ Culber’s voice was low, but diamond-hard, cutting through his partner’s incipient tirade before the engineer could work up a head of steam and say something potentially career-ending.

 

Philippa nodded her approval as the other man subsided; Stamets might have a brilliant mind, but he hadn’t a shred of political acumen or self-preservation anywhere in his body. It was actually quite refreshing and one of the things she liked the most about him. Tonight, however? _No_.

 

Philippa smiled the smile she usually reserved for admirals who pissed her off; Saru’s long fingers reached behind his head to tuck his threat ganglia away as discretely as he could.

 

“Since you asked so nicely, lieutenant; tomorrow, Science Specialist Burnham will be giving a presentation of an idea that I believe has merit—”

 

 _“Didn’t take her long to go whining to her girlfriend,”_ the engineer muttered resentfully under his breath; in the sudden quiet of the ready room, it was as loud as a warp core breach.

 

This time Hugh Culber could only stare open-mouthed at his sulking, oblivious lover in disbelief, while Saru seemed to shrink in on himself to present as small a target as possible—no mean feat, given that he was over two hundred centimetres tall. Airiam remained outwardly impassive, but there was a hint of wariness in her large, dark eyes, and a small—almost imperceptible—expression of _alarm_ ghosted over Ellen Landry’s face.

 

“I _beg_ your pardon, lieutenant?”

 

“Oh, _come on_ , captain!” Stamets blazed, ignoring, or perhaps not hearing, the deadly edge Philippa’s voice had taken on. “I thought we’d had already settled everything on the subject of that _damned_ _Tardigrade!_ We need the creature if we’re to have any hope of moving past the limitations of piddling warp and winning this war!”

 

Philippa forced herself to lean back in her chair; her rage roared through her—a roiling, bloated sun on the verge of supernova.

 

“Oh, Science Specialist Burnham knows _better_ than to come to me on the subject of that _damned_ _Tardigrade_ ,” she said, her voice becoming even quieter than before. “We discussed that weeks ago and she understands that the subject is closed until we find a viable alternative for navigating the mycelial network. Believe me, she _knows_ —better than _anyone_ on this ship—that I am committed to using any _asset_ necessary to win this war. If I were not, then _she_ would be safely in prison, far away from this bloody war, _Mr. Stamets!_ ”

 

They all looked at her now in shock, including the usually imperturbable Airiam, as she bitterly threw Michael’s status as a mutineer and prisoner, as well as their relationship, into their teeth.

 

“But while we _are_ on the subject of that _damned Tardigrade_ , Mr. Stamets; I have decided that you will no longer be charge with its welfare—”

 

 _“Captain!”_ he gasped.

 

“I have decided that Science Specialist Burnham, as a _xenoanthropologist_ with a degree in quantum physics, is _uniquely_ qualified to taking care of such a valuable and irreplaceable _asset_ ,” she continued in that quiet voice, her native Malay accent becoming more pronounced as it usually did when she was roused to such fury; Stamets paled whiter than his usual near-albino complexion. “I have also decided that her idea of keeping it in a spore-rich environment, when it is not in the drive cube, has merit and I will _expect_ you to provide her with _every iota_ of spore rations she requisitions from you for its upkeep. Is that _understood_ , Mr. Stamets?”

 

“Yes captain,” he croaked hoarsely, gaping at her as if he’d never seen her before.

 

“Good. Because I won’t have _any_ creature—intelligent or not— _starving_ on my ship!” she ground out, acutely aware of her own shame in this. She’d tried to use the creature as sparingly as possible, but each time she did, it stained her soul; Michael’s immediate compassion for it and conviction that it was sentient, made the disappointment Philippa had seen in her love’s eyes that much more heartbreaking.  “I trust, Dr. Culber, you will not have any objections to helping Specialist Burnham maintain its health for as long as possible?”

 

“None what so ever, captain,” he replied smartly, meeting her gaze briefly before typing something into his PADD.

 

“Excellent,” she said before continuing. “Now, to return to the subject of why you are here this evening; Science Specialist Burnham will be presenting her theory on scanning for cloaked Klingon ships—”

 

She heard their collective shocked intake of breath, saw their stunned faces, but ignored them as she forged ahead. “A theory she has formulated with little over a month to study the data and no one to help her, because no one on this _ship_ will _associate_ with her.”

 

“That’s impossible!” an angry Stamets shouted. “I don’t know what bill of goods Burnham has sold you, but the teams I have working flat out on it, informed me just days ago that it may take _years_ before a breakthrough is made.”

 

“I assure you, lieutenant, it is _entirely_ possible,” she said smugly, enjoying their dazed and confused expressions. “Maybe if just _one_ person on your teams had been interested in speaking with her, instead of dismissing her out of hand, she could have helped them to find the right track sooner. In fact, her theory is so simple and elegant that even _I_ understood it within moments, and it uses extant technologies we _already_ possess.”

 

“Then why was I not informed of this, captain?” he grated out angrily. “I am her supervisor—any _theories_ should have been brought to me first!”

 

“Yes, it should have,” Philippa said evenly, anger shading her voice. “Tell me, lieutenant; how many messages, sent by Science Specialist Michael Burnham over the past week, have been sitting _unread_ in your inbox?”

 

He gaped at her, shocked and red-faced; Culber didn’t look at him, but stared straight ahead, his jaw clenched in obvious fury.

 

“Please, _lieutenant_ , take a few moments and consult your PADD; we will wait for you.” That nasty, hateful part of her _savoured_ his embarrassment as he picked up his tablet and tapped a few commands into it.

 

#


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought I'd get just one more chapter up before I turn in. Enjoy!

“Well, lieutenant?”

 

“Four,” he said hoarsely, staring at the PADD. “She’s sent four messages in the last week—three in the last five days.”

 

“And how many times has she approached you to request a meeting, lieutenant, only to be summarily brushed off?”

 

“I-I assumed she wanted to talk about releasing the Tardigrade,” he said with stubborn petulance.

 

“You _assumed_ ,” Philippa echoed, forcing herself not to sneer at the man. “And you, Lieutenant Commander Airiam,” she said turning to the Fire Dancer.

 

A barely perceptible wave of shame flowed over the cyborg’s face. “Science Specialist Burnham approached me twice this week, captain,” she admitted. “The first time, I told her to follow protocol and bring whatever ideas she had to Lieutenant Stamets first as her direct supervisor.”

 

“And did you not think that Specialist Burnham may have had a good reason to break protocol?” Philippa demanded.

 

“No captain,” the spore drive ops officer and chief science officer replied.

 

“And the second time she approached you?” Philippa persisted doggedly, unwilling to let it go, now that she knew how Michael had been treated, by almost _everyone_ , since boarding _Discovery_.

 

Her heart wept for the hostility and isolation her love had had to endure; how blind she’d been. She’d thought she was giving Michael a chance at a better life by bringing her onto _Discovery_ , but the last month must have been almost as isolating and _punishing_ as prison. And still, Michael had turned around and handed them a miracle … a possible way to end this war, or at least turn the tide … with absolutely _no_ help from _anyone_.

 

“I was too busy, captain,” Airiam replied, head bowed and staring resolutely at the table. “I was overseeing Cadet Tilly’s global sensor realignment exercises at that time and told her to again take her work to Lieutenant Stamets.”

 

“I see.” Philippa let the oppressive silence settle for a few moments, before continuing. “After tomorrow’s presentation, I expect that we will take the day to input Specialist Burnham’s parameters and model them. Starting tonight, there will be a complete communications blackout on this ship—no messages in or out that are not gold channel priority and _personally_ approved by me. Do I make myself clear?”

 

“Captain, is it really necessary to curtail communications like this?” Landry asked, speaking for the first time.

 

Philippa leveled a hard gaze at her; she imagined she saw a haunted look in those dark eyes.

 

“ _Commander Landry_ , we may have in our hands, the means to beat the enemy’s cloak—their major advantage in this _war!_ I will _not_ have it _broadcast_ across subspace before we even have a chance to test it! Once the parameters are input and an adequate number of simulations are run, the entire crew will take liberty in shifts over the following thirty-six hours. Commander Saru, please see to the scheduling with the department heads and team leaders; inform Quartermaster McDougall and Chef Zhang that extra rations are authorised for a party … within reason.”

 

“Yes captain,” Saru said consulting his PADD.

 

“And within forty-eight hours of this ship’s confirmed readiness for battle, we go hunting Klingons!” she snarled. “Then we will jump back to Fleet Headquarters to deliver the data ourselves!”

 

“Yes captain!” Saru repeated smartly, and her other officers followed suit.

 

“Now, I just have one last thing to say to you all before I let you go.”

 

Philippa rose from her seat and moved toward the viewport; stars, like diamond dust, studded the vast expanse of space stretched out before her.

 

Taking a breath, she turned to face them again. “You may not like me … you may not like Michael … you may not like our _relationship_ , but you will respect it and you _will_ respect _her_. I need Starfleet _officers_ on this ship, not a bunch of schoolchildren! So, if you decide that you _cannot_ act like an officer should, let me know and I will _happily_ drop you off at the nearest starbase. But this behaviour stops _tonight!_ ” she snarled, losing hold of her temper as they all looked distinctly uncomfortable.

 

“You call her a traitor—then, I am surely as much a _traitor_ as she is, because what happened at the binary stars was just as much _my_ fault as it was hers. But if _this_ is what a traitor does, _my God_ … I wish that we had a lot more _traitors_ like her. Then, maybe, we would have found the solution to defeating the enemy’s cloaks _months_ ago!”

 

“That is _unfair_ , captain!” Culber said evenly as he met her gaze; beside him Stamets looked pale and shaken. “Our engineering and science teams have been working as hard and as fast as they could to find solutions to a great many problems—not only the spore drive or the Klingon cloak! They are running themselves ragged—you _cannot_ fault them!”

 

“You’re right, Dr. Culber,” Philippa said quietly now; the surprised man did a double-take. “I cannot fault them … _I do not fault them_ and that was unfair of me to say; but it was as _unfair_ as blaming one woman for an _entire war!_ What everyone—including Starfleet, the Admiralty and the _entire_ Federation— _conveniently_ seem to forget, is that _T’Kuvma_ _wanted_ _this war!_ Our _enemy_ wanted this war to secure his _legacy_ as the Klingon messiah and did _everything_ in his power to provoke it! And we _excoriated_ the one person who saw this from the _beginning_ and tried to stop it from happening—despite knowing _exactly_ what it would mean for her career. She was so … _desperate_ that day,” she continued, her voice breaking from the almost unbearable pressure in her chest.

 

“And I did not see it—all I saw was my rock-solid, dependable Number One crumbling and behaving erratically at the exact moment I needed that calm and brilliantly analytical mind of hers. I put it down to the effects of the radiation poisoning from her flyby of T’Kuvma’s ship, and her childhood fear of the Klingons, given the way her birth family died. I didn’t see that her fear was not for herself—it was not about her _‘Klingon boogeyman’_ , as I’d so condescendingly put it that day. It was fear for her crew … for the family she’d found on board _Shenzhou_ , and for her family on Vulcan, because she knew _exactly_ what the Klingons would do, and _exactly_ where this _war_ would lead … to dead crewmates … to destroyed ships … to dead families … to destroyed or subjugated worlds. We have _all_ seen the reports—seen the _atrocities_ they have committed on world after world!”

 

Philippa folded her arms across her chest and returned to her seat at the head of the table, meeting each of their gazes in turn. “As I said earlier, I don’t expect you to like us, and I don’t expect you to like our relationship, but I do expect you to _respect_ it, and to show Science Specialist Michael Burnham the _respect_ she _deserves_.”

 

Led by Saru, they rose to attention and replied one voice. _“Yes captain.”_

 

“Very well,” Philippa said with a nod. “You are all dismissed, except for Commander Landry; we have some security measures to discuss.”

 

They filed out quickly, Hugh Culber slipping his hand into Paul Stamets’ as the door closed behind them. Philippa returned her attention to Landry, who quietly resumed her seat.

 

“Computer, engage full privacy mode for the captain’s ready room, authorisation Georgiou beta-one-tau-six-eta. No interruptions until disengaged.”

 

“Acknowledged, Captain Georgiou; full privacy mode engaged.”

 

#


	4. Chapter 4

She studied the young woman for long silent moments; Landry held her gaze steadily, with just a hint of … defiance, or perhaps, unease. Wordlessly, Philippa reached out and tapped a command into her portable console, then angled it so that Landry could view the screen as well.

 

_Michael stands under the showerhead, hands braced against the wall … head bowed, as if too heavy for her neck to support … naked body shaking with the force of her silent sobbing as the hot water sluices over her. The only modicum of privacy afforded her is the rising steam._

 

Ellen Landry stared with open-mouthed horror at the recording for long seconds, before turning away with a low, startled grunt, as if the air had been forced from her body by a punch to the gut.

 

“Look at it.”

 

The woman kept her back resolutely turned to her, one leg extended, one hand braced against the table, as if poised for flight. Philippa’s rage exploded from the cage of her control, and before she’d registered it, she was standing by Landry’s chair, forcibly turning the woman’s head, in her crushing grip, to face the console again.

 

 _“I said, look at it!”_ she screamed. Her other hand was wrapped with the security chief’s sleek, black ponytail, and she clawed viciously at the roots, using it to force the struggling Landry to keep her eyes open as she shoved her face closer to the screen.

 

_Michael leaves the bathroom, wrapped in a white towel. She sits on the edge of her bed and reaches for a standard-issue tube of lotion on the nightstand._

 

It was categorically _not_ the glass pot of Vulcan herb-infused cream that Amanda Grayson had sent in a care hamper for her daughter, which Philippa had personally approved and given to her love weeks ago. That was the cream Michael had worn during her seven years on _Shenzhou_ ; to Philippa, she always smelled like exotic Vulcan spiced tea with just a subtle hint of vanilla.

 

_She is obviously exhausted and struggles to rub the lotion into the skin of her breasts and torso without removing the towel. Her expression is emotionless; her eyes are dead blank as she moisturises her face, arms and legs, before slipping on her underwear, t-shirt and pants, and only after she finishes this routine, does she remove the towel. She uses it to dry her hair, then returns to the bathroom and drops it into the clothing refresher._

 

The cameras followed her seamlessly. Relentlessly.

 

_She quickly brushes her teeth and returns to the bed, pulls the cover sheet up, curls into a tight foetal ball with her arms wrapped around her knees, and calls for ‘lights out’._

The camera switched to night vision mode.

 

_Michael is so small and so very still … she has crawled into the only safe place she has left. But even the confines of her mind are not wholly private; she gives a soft, incoherent whimper._

_Nightmares are coming and there is no one to comfort her through them._

 

And Philippa wanted to scream.

 

“What do you want to watch next? Shall I queue up one of the nightmares in which she is _begging_ me not to die? Or perhaps you would rather watch one of her _screaming_ for her mother and father to wake up after the Klingons _slaughtered_ them? Or maybe you’d just like to watch her taking another shower or using the _fucking_ toilet!”

 

 _“Please …”_ Landry’s voice was hoarse and thick with tears. “Oh, God … stop!” she cried.

 

 _“Please … what?”_ she sneered, voice low and vicious in her effort to keep from screaming. “Stop _what?_ Isn’t this how you got your _kicks_ , commander? Tell me, did you have _get off_ watching her during all her most _private_ moments?”

 

 _“No!”_ Landry looked sick to her stomach as she wrenched her head away from Philippa’s grasp. There were tears rolling down her cheeks. “Other than a couple of quick, random views at the beginning to check the devices were working properly, I haven’t looked at the recordings—I _swear_ it, captain!”

 

“And that is _supposed_ to make it better?” Philippa gave the raging fury in her chest free rein. “How could you _possibly_ think that it was acceptable to do something so _vile_ on _my ship?_ On _any_ Starfleet ship?”

 

“I was just following _orders!_ ” Ellen Landry shouted stumbling away from the table. Philippa slammed the console shut.

 

“Whose orders?” she demanded. _“Lorca’s?”_

 

Again, Landry gaped at her in absolute shock.

 

_“Answer me!”_

 

“Yes, the orders were relayed through Captain Lorca,” she said hoarsely after a long moment, in which she seemed to make up her mind about something. “But they came directly from the office of the Director of Starfleet Intelligence, captain. Please believe me; I wouldn’t have cooperated otherwise. I tried to argue that the surveillance went too far, but they were signed _direct orders_ from Admiral Picard himself! I couldn’t disobey—it was a classified covert operation and that would have been _treason_ , Captain Georgiou.”

 

Philippa regarded the desperate woman, feeling only a spurt of pity now. Pulling herself together, she backed away and sat down before asking, “Do you still have your copies of the orders?”

 

“Yes, captain,” she replied looking at Philippa anxiously now. “Both the original and hardcopy, as well as an data chip with gold channel access and authentication codes, my communiques with Captain Lorca and even the box the recording devices came in; they were delivered to me at Starbase 12 when _Discovery_ docked there the week Specialist Burnham came on board.”

 

“You kept it all, even hardcopies?”

 

“Yes ma’am,” she replied sitting down again. “The first thing they teach you in security training is to document everything. I’ve always been a little OCD and well … I’d never done anything for Intelligence before, so ... it-it’s just something I’ve always done.”

 

“And it may be the _only_ thing that saves your career, commander,” Philippa said quietly; her anger reduced once more to a low simmer.

 

#


	5. Chapter 5

_“Captain?”_ Landry croaked. Philippa saw the exact moment that it began to dawn on her that this operation may not have been as sanctioned as she thought, and the panic that came with it.

 

“Commander Landry, to put it politely, you are being _fucked_ over,” Philippa said bluntly to the horrified young woman. “Perhaps not as _fucked_ as Lieutenant Commander Jessica Osbourne, Admiral Picard’s aide, or Captain Mark Stone from Starfleet Communications, but that’s only because you have had the good fortune of _not_ being in the convenient vicinity of Gabriel Lorca’s _bed_ for the last six months.”

 

Ellen Landry covered her mouth, stifling an involuntary cry as things fell into place for her, and she realised how badly her former captain—a man she’d _trusted_ implicitly—had compromised her.

 

“And one thing you should know, commander, is that if, in the _unlikely_ event that Starfleet Intelligence—and especially _Admiral Picard_ —is going to ask you to run a covert operation by yourself, with no backup and no training at all … if he’s going to ask you to _compromise_ Starfleet Regulations to such a gross and _unspeakable_ extent, then he will do so _in person_ —wouldn’t you, Louis-Georges?”

 

“Indeed, Philippa,” came the cultured tenor of Admiral Louis-Georges Picard, as his and Vice Admiral Katrina Cornwell’s holograms blossomed above the table’s holo-projector.

 

Landry’s bug-eyed shock would have been funny, if it hadn’t been so _damned_ _pitiful_.

 

“And again, I am so very sorry your young lady was the victim of this vile conspiracy, my dear,” he continued.

 

Philippa waved him off. “Save your apologies for Michael, once you’ve got to the bottom of this, Old Man. Have you _arrested_ him yet?”

 

“Yes,” he replied. “The retrieval teams caught him and Jessica quite literally in bed together—I do so hate having to _break_ an aide, as well as having to break a new one in. Captain Stone will be in custody shortly.”

 

“Good—I want Lorca _sectioned!_ ” she snarled; Landry stared at her in confusion and no little amount of fear. “I want his _mind_ drawn and quartered, Katrina—I want them _all_ pumped so full of truth serum, they’ll need _fucking gills_ to breath! Because I need to know what they’ve done with all those _weeks_ of recordings—” Philippa’s voice hitched and broke; Landry began to weep openly now, as the enormity of it sank in at last. “I need to know if even _one_ image got out, because I have to prepare Michael for that.

 

 _“And find out why the_ hell _he’s so obsessed with her!”_

 

Anger shredded her voice, leaving it hoarse and raw. Her entire being, so light and filled with love and joy and hope less than two hours ago, felt like she was drowning in _utter filth_ —the kind of filth she’d thought she could leave behind nearly fifteen years ago. And she wondered how good people like Katrina and Louis-Georges could stand it for so many decades, but she supposed they saw it as a _duty_ , the way she had all those years ago … the way she needed to again … _for Michael_.

 

 _This time, I will_ not _fail her!_

 

“As far as I know, Gabriel Lorca has _never_ met Michael Burnham,” she continued doggedly. “Not _once_ during her seven-year tenure on _Shenzhou_ … not while she was growing up on Vulcan, and certainly _not_ while she was in prison. Yet, he was the one who initially suggested, and even _pushed_ to have her released from prison, then conscripted and stationed on board _this ship_ , even after Farzaneh denied him this command!”

 

“I don’t know, captain,” Landry said in a low, hoarse voice. “The way he spoke about her … ma’am, it was almost _intimate_ , and I would swear that he knew her. He admired her mind, her vast intellect—he once said that he’d always known she was destined for greatness, if she could ever get past _you_ holding her back, Captain Georgiou. When he gave me my orders, and I tried to argue against the devices in her quarters, he told me that Intelligence needed to be sure that she could be trusted, because it was a shame to let a mind like hers go to waste—and why not rehabilitate her to serve Starfleet again, if they could? But to be sure of her, they needed to know her completely … know if she was apt to betray Starfleet again and that information would most likely be revealed only in private, when she thought she was completely alone. If she was going to voice any seditious thoughts … do anything against Starfleet or the Federation, her quarters would be the most likely place in which to do it.”

 

 _“My God!”_ Philippa breathed as she considered Landry’s information and tried to reconcile it with what she _knew_ to be true. “What the _fuck_ is going on? The _Gabriel Lorca_ I knew—and worked with, Kat—would _never_ have done this!”

 

Katrina nodded, looking completely devastated; Philippa knew that she’d seconded Farzaneh’s recommendation of his posting to Intelligence and, moreover, still remained close to him. And she, Philippa, had been so _damned grateful_ for his support in getting Michael out of prison, she’d never thought to question it—put it down to old comrades in arms supporting each other, even as they competed for the same ship.

 

“Regardless, more than ever, we need to know _why!_ Especially with our recent intel that the new Klingon leader, Kol, is experimenting with infiltrators using captured Starfleet personnel … turning Federation citizens into brainwashed berserkers; while others, like House Moh’Kai, are looking to use a combination of surgery and Human Augment Gene Mods to create _Klingon_ infiltrators that can _pass_ for _Human_.”

 

“I understand, Philippa,” Katrina replied hoarsely, her face pale and drawn. “ _God_ , believe me—I certainly understand that. This isn’t the man who has been one of my _best friends_ for the better part of the last _thirty years_. We _will_ get to the bottom of this, Pippa; I promise you that!”

 

“Thank you, but remember your other promise, Kat,” Philippa said, voice hard and unyielding. “Once we deliver the cloak detection system and data, she _will_ be given a full pardon, and Starfleet will _stop_ using her as a scapegoat— _stop_ that _disgusting_ campaign smearing her name!”

 

“You have my word, Philippa!”

 

“Are you sure you cannot give us just a _hint_ about what your lady love intends?” Louis-Georges wheedled, and Philippa could only laugh at the incongruity of it, silently thanking him for dispelling some of the pain-filled atmosphere.

 

“You are _incorrigible_ , Old Man, and I love you—” Landry goggled at her declaration for her old mentor and handler, “but you need to _clean_ house first, Louis-Georges. However, if you want a _hint_ , then I would suggest you read her dissertation on _‘Quantum Mapping of Omnicordial Intersects Through Subspace’_ , which won her the Vulcan Scientific Legion of Honour medal—the _only_ non-Vulcan to do so. She _pioneered_ entirely new fields in quantum physics and theoretical mathematics, and it wasn’t even her passion; it was simply a means to an end. She’d hoped it would win her a place on the Vulcan Expeditionary Group, so that she could explore her true passion— _xenoanthropology_ —but they couldn’t get their heads out of their pedantic asses! She is an explorer at heart, who wants nothing more than to explore the myriad species and cultures out there. But, even after excoriating and imprisoning her, _Starfleet_ needed that brilliant quantum physicist in her, and so, she turned her formidable mind to that in the hope of helping to end this war sooner, and perhaps gaining a measure of forgiveness.”

 

“I understand, _xiao meimei_ ,” he said gently and shifted his gaze back to Landry. “And this young woman? What would you have us do with her?”

 

#


	6. Chapter 6

“That will depend _entirely_ on Commander Landry,” Philippa replied, studying her terrified security chief. “I don’t fancy having to dismiss a senior officer, not on the eve of a major operation like this one. It would degrade crew morale and confidence. But I will _not_ take an officer, whom I cannot _trust_ , into what will surely be the battle for our very _lives_. I will not entrust _my crew, my ship, and_ _everything I hold dear in this life_ , to someone who has her own agenda … her own axes to grind. Because, commander, if something were to happen to me and to Saru, _you_ are the one that will have to get them home … _you_ are the one I will have put my _faith_ in to do what is best for _everyone_. And at this moment, I am more inclined to trust _Cadet Tilly_ to do the right thing, than I am disposed to trusting _you_.”

 

Landry flinched perceptibly, but her spine stiffened and her eyes lost that look of abject terror.

 

“So, Commander Landry, why should I even _consider_ trusting you again? Why should I give you a second chance?”

 

“I don’t know that you should, captain,” she replied quietly, truly surprising Philippa for the first time. “Right now, _I_ would trust Cadet Tilly’s judgement more than I would trust my own. In fact, you may need to truth serum me along with his other _dupes_.”

 

“Explain, please,” Philippa said quietly, as tears began to roll down the younger woman’s face again; she looked unbearably sad and heartbroken.

 

“I didn’t escape his _bed_ , captain,” she said hoarsely, struggling to maintain eye contact through her tears. “Or rather, he came to mine.”

 

“When was this?” Katrina demanded.

 

“The night after the memorial service for the crew of the _Buran_ , ma’am,” she replied, her breath shuddering in her chest. “I had been discharged from Starfleet Medical a few days earlier, and he took Carolina Vargas, Tlissorn th’Holah and me for dinner and drinks to toast the crew at _Sandrine’s_ , the Fleet bar—”

 

“In Marseilles,” Katrina finished and smiled sadly at Philippa. “We know it well, commander; please continue.”

 

“We were all that was _left!_ ” she sobbed, staring sightlessly into the past. “Four people out of a crew of over three hundred! I was supposed to _be_ there!”

 

“No one blames you for that, commander,” Philippa said, damning Gabriel Lorca again to _hell_ , as she reached for Landry’s hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You were gravely injured saving those two crewmen—if not for your actions, there would have been no one from the _Buran_ left to mourn your crew.”

 

“And I think that your being on _Earth_ , in a medically induced _coma_ for nearly two weeks _before_ the _Buran’s_ destruction, pretty much absolves you of any guilt, Commander Landry,” Katrina said in that blunt way of hers. “Did he coerce you? Force you in _any_ way?”

 

 _“No ma’am!”_ she replied shaking her head vehemently, but she kept her eyes trained on the table—her shame obvious. “That first night, when he walked me home from the transporter hub, I _asked_ him to stay … I didn’t want to be alone. I needed—”

 

“You needed someone,” Philippa finished for her, as she began to sob harder.

 

“We’ve all needed someone like that at one time or another, commander,” Kat said quietly. “There is no shame in it.”

 

Philippa gave an internal sigh and crouched to gather her distraught chief of security into her arms, holding her as she cried herself out. Whether the woman recognised it or not, Lorca _had_ taken advantage of her at a time of incredible pain, loss and _vulnerability_ due to survivor’s guilt; Philippa was sure of it and the look in Katrina’s eyes told her she recognised that as well.

 

As Landry’s sobs abated, Philippa let her go and retrieved the box of tissues from her desk.

 

“Was that the only time, commander?” Kat asked.

 

“I expected it to be,” she replied, drying her eyes and blowing her nose. “But he kept coming back.”

 

“He’s quite a charming _pest_ when he wants to be, isn’t he?”

 

Landry gave a quiet, hollow laugh. “Aye, that he is, Admiral Cornwell.”

 

“Welcome to the club, kid,” Kat laughed, causing the young woman to stare in open-mouthed shock again. “Two of the three people in this room with you have fallen for Gabriel Lorca’s charms—not to mention, fallen into his _bed_ —at one time or another, and there is no shame in it. Philippa there only escaped because her tastes usually run to much less stubble and much better boobs than Gabe could manage.”

 

 _“Jesus Christ! Kat!”_ Philippa complained in outrage, as the other three laughed; she was glad though, to see a little sparkle that returned to Landry’s eyes.

 

“Gotta laugh when I can, Pippa,” her friend replied. “Or I’d be crying all day, every _damned_ day.”

 

“Captain Stone and his department staff are in custody,” Louis-Georges reported. “Katrina and I must go. We don’t think anyone from Communications but Stone is implicated, but we need to make sure. Meanwhile, Philippa, secure the commander’s evidence until you can get back here.”

 

“I will see to it, sir.”

 

“Take care, Commander Landry—chin up,” Katrina advised gently. “Philippa, we’ll see you in a week—and you’d _better_ be in one piece.”

 

“Aye, aye, Admiral Cornwell,” Philippa replied with an impudent salute.

 

“Good hunting, Captain Georgiou,” Louis-Georges said.

 

“You too, sir. Gold channel closed, authorisation Captain Philippa Georgiou beta-one-tau-six-eta.”

 

#


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, so I thought I'd post it without endlessly editing - LOL!!! Let me know if there are any egregious errors!!!
> 
> Enjoy!

After the holographic image winked out of existence and the channel closed, Philippa turned her attention to Ellen Landry again; her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy, but her gaze was steady, even as Philippa could see the dread in them again.

 

“Commander, why don’t you use my facilities to freshen up?” she suggested. “Then we will secure your evidence and discuss a few things. I’ll try not to be long—we have a full day tomorrow.”

 

“Thank you, captain,” she replied, before wearily levering herself up and disappearing into the small washroom adjacent to the ready room.

 

Philippa turned her attention back to the closed portable console in front of her and sighed. She’d promised herself that she wouldn’t lose her temper when she confronted Landry, but she recognised now that she’d been _‘losing her shit’_ —as Katrina had so pungently put it—from the moment she’d viewed those images after leaving Michael for the evening. Her only saving grace was that Kat and Louis-Georges would have stopped her if she’d been in danger of going too far; still, she hated the loss of control it represented.

 

Landry exited the washroom looking freshly scrubbed, but with a lingering air of devastation in her red-rimmed eyes. She came to stand beside her chair, hands clasped behind her.

 

“When you’re ready, captain.”

 

Philippa nodded. “Before we go, commander, I would like to apologise for the way I treated you earlier during our initial confrontation,” she said quietly as the younger woman gaped at her. “I was extremely … _furious_ after seeing those recordings, but that is no excuse. I should have been able to control my anger—”

 

 _“You’re apologising to me?”_ Landry croaked in disbelief. “You don’t need to apologise to me, captain—you _never_ need to apologise to me—not for _that_. No. _I’m_ the one who needs to _apologise_ to you, Captain Georgiou, and especially to Ms Burnham. I’ve always thought of myself as brave, that I would always be able to act ethically, the way they taught us at the Academy. But when it came down to it, I wasn’t brave enough to do the right thing by Specialist Burnham, because I was too afraid to be branded a traitor. I _knew_ how invasive the surveillance was and I am _ashamed_ that I still set those devices up … ashamed that I still _followed orders_ and forwarded the recordings. For what it’s worth, I am truly sorry about that. I should have come to you when I started having doubts about obeying those orders, captain—I see that now, and I am sorry I was such a _coward_.”

 

“It’s understandable, commander,” she said, relieved that Landry wouldn’t make an issue of her lapse; the woman was certainly proving to be a better officer than Philippa had initially judged her. She could see now how Lorca had played on her natural sense of duty, survivor’s guilt and obsessive adherence to the rules, to make her his dupe.

 

“You were in a catch-22 situation, and no doubt, Louis-Georges will use this opportunity to do a hard review of his department’s established processes, with an eye towards making it easier for Fleet personnel to double-check the veracity of secret or confidential orders. Everything in your files say that you are a good officer, Commander Landry, but if you _ever_ have any doubt about orders in the future, please come to me … even if you cannot give me specifics, I will always try to help in any way I can. I have also had to learn this the hard way, many, _many_ years ago—that there is no shame in asking for guidance, especially when orders can cause such grievous harm—and even I struggle with such ethical dilemmas that I still need Katrina and even Louis-Georges to check my moral compass on occasion.”

 

Ellen Landry’s eyes shone with gratitude. “Yes captain, I will,” she replied softly. “Thank you.”

 

#

 

Philippa looked at the distinctive package in Ellen Landry’s hands and closed her eyes, silently counting to ten.

 

“It was a test, he said, to see how she would react to having the only things she had that were of any value taken away.” Landry’s voice was low, guilt-ridden. “To see if she would lash out and say something incriminating. I didn’t have the heart to dispose of it. I’d like to return it to her tomorrow—if I may, captain? Apologise to her.”

 

Philippa already had the evidence secured in a case bio-locked to her; she counted to ten again and then let her anger go, because she’d exploded enough times that night and was getting really _tired_ of it.

 

“I think Michael would like that; it was from her mother, Lady Amanda Grayson,” she said quietly. Landry nodded, returning the care hamper to her secure cabinet and locking it. “It’s nearly 0100 hours; I’d like to get our briefing finished, commander, so that we can both get some rest before tomorrow’s—or rather, today’s—presentation.”

 

After she’d secured her office again, Landry followed Philippa, quickly noting that they were not headed back to the bridge.

 

“I have a vault in my quarters,” Philippa explained.

 

“So, there’s no need to make the trek all the way to and from the bridge again,” her security chief said with a small smile.

 

“There is that,” Philippa conceded. It was a short walk made in relative silence, as really, there wasn’t anything Philippa wanted to discuss outside the privacy of her quarters. She invited Landry to have a seat in the chair near her desk, while she went into her bedroom to put the evidence case into her vault, disguised in the bulkhead near her bathroom.

 

#

 


	8. Chapter 8

She took a moment to freshen up—to fortify herself, really—before returning to the public area of her quarters. She noticed that her steward, Yeoman M’Kiliss—an older Caitian male—had taken advantage of her absence to tidy her quarters, removing the evidence of her dinner with Michael …

 

 _And of my_ rage _when I first watched the recordings; I’ll have to thank him in the morning._

 

“Do you take coffee this late in the evening, commander?” she asked, moving towards the replicator.

 

“No captain—ah … hot chocolate, if you please; Landry HC47.”

 

Philippa smiled as she ordered the drink and a pot of mint tea for herself. “Landry HC47?” she queried gently, handing the mug to the other woman, as she sat down behind her desk to pour and sip her own tea.

 

She returned Philippa’s smile and placed her PADD on the desk. “My grandmother’s recipe; cocoa powder blended with cinnamon, nutmeg and cardamom in steamed whole milk fortified with malt extract. I can usually get a good approximation out of the replicator with recipe number forty-seven.”

 

Philippa laughed at a sudden revelation. “You truly are OCD, aren’t you?” Landry gave her a quizzical look. “I thought it was the forty-seventh recipe in your personal menu of items, but it’s actually the _forty-seventh blend_ of your hot chocolate recipe, isn’t it?”

 

Embarrassment flared in dark her eyes, and she ducked her head, training her gaze on the cup she held between both palms.

 

“You think that they’ll always be there,” she said quietly. “Grandma died before I understood the importance of things like that and of family connections; it was midway through my first year at the Academy and I had an incident. My counsellor suggested cooking and recipe re-engineering or development as a constructive outlet for my obsessive-compulsive disorder. So, I started with my grandmother’s dishes, and over the years, I’ve learned to tinker with my replicator recipes when I get stressed or go down into the ship’s kitchen and beg a couple of hours at the stove from the chef in my spare time.”

 

She took a shuddering breath. “I should have realised how bad things were getting …”

 

“Commander?” Philippa prompted as the silence stretched out between them.

 

“Usually, I only get this way once or twice every few months and only when I’m stressed for long periods,” she replied with a sad smile. “Sometimes, six months will pass without an episode. But lately … well, I’ve pestered Head Chef Zhang three or four times this month—enough that he probably thinks I’m a bit nuttier than peanut butter.” Philippa couldn’t help but snort a small chuckle at the self-deprecating remark. “Honestly captain, you must think I’m rather unhinged, but I promise that I’m usually better than this at gauging my mental health—at listening to what all my neuroses and compulsions are trying to tell me, beyond finding a healthy outlet for them. I honestly don’t know how I let it get so bad.”

 

“So, _you_ are responsible for all the Indian sweets that have been appearing in the mess hall lately,” Philippa quipped with a soft chuckle; no need to let it get heavy again and allow the younger woman to fall into a spiral, her instincts told her.

 

She laughed. “Did I mention a _major_ sweet tooth on top of everything? Let’s just say, it’s a good thing I exercise as much as I do.”

 

“I doubt that you are any more unhinged than the rest of us, Commander Landry,” Philippa said gently. “You are maybe a little more _classifiable_ , in the traditional sense—which is not saying much at all. But perhaps a few sessions with your counsellor is in order after the mission?”

 

“Yes, captain.” Philippa could hear the relief in her voice.

 

“All right,” she said, getting back on track. “I would like to come up with some general tactical doctrine for this mission, based on what Michael has relayed to me so far about her detection system. She will be giving a detailed presentation tomorrow, including the scan parameters that we’ll need to set up, but as I mentioned tonight, her system is simplicity itself—yet extremely elegant and powerful. It will use the scanners developed for navigating and mapping the mycelial plane, but re-tasked to scan the flow-fields at the space-subspace interface.”

 

Landry gaped open-mouthed; Philippa grinned in response. She got the feeling that there would be a lot of similar expressions in the morning—along with a lot of scientists kicking themselves for not seeing the solution before.

 

“As Michael theorised, the cloaks are fundamentally _“cheats”_ on flow-field physics, and therefore would interfere with superluminal particle trajectories—tachyons and dekyons specifically. Using the scanners in this way, will described a _null-field_ , for any active cloak, within the background flow-fields, which will give us targets to shoot at.”

 

 _“Vishnu!”_ Landry breathed.

 

“My sentiments exactly, commander,” Philippa said chuckling. “Now, we won’t be able to jump and scan, as jumping would cause a lot of sensor ghosts, which would confuse the scans; in fact, the spore drive will have to be offline _completely_. We will be relying entirely on warp, and that means that I’ll need some fancy footwork from you and your tactical and weapons teams—whoever else you can make use of.”

 

 _“Oh, my gods!”_ the other woman squealed excitedly, sounding almost as young and gleeful as Sylvia Tilly usually did. She dropped her mug onto the desk and grabbed her PADD, frantically tapping out commands.

 

“Ms Landry?” Philippa said in amusement, trying to get her attention; when she received no response, she shouted a little louder, “Commander Landry! What is it?”

 

Dark eyes met hers again; there was an _unholy_ gleam in them, which made Philippa ever so glad that she hadn’t given into her twin demons of anger and destructiveness—and _spaced_ the woman earlier that evening.

 

#


	9. Chapter 9

“Captain, will we be able to do the scans from warp?”

 

“I would assume so,” she replied. “Michael didn’t say anything about prohibiting the use of the warp drive—only the spore drive, because it would cause similar perturbations in the flow-fields and muddy the scans.”

 

“Then we already have a pretty effective tactical doctrine—or rather _Earth_ did three hundred years ago—”

 

“Commander?”

 

Landry handed her the PADD, which immediately cleared things up. “Another of my long-standing obsessions—old Earth military history,” she chuckled as Philippa scrolled through it. “Anti-submarine warfare, captain.”

 

Philippa looked up, her own excitement building. “All right commander, what are you thinking?” she asked, leaning back in her chair.

 

“Klingon ships hunt in groups, at least two, but most commonly, three or four ships swarming Starfleet ships from the safety of their cloaks, engaging and uncloaking long enough to fire weapons, then cloaking and getting the _hell_ out of Dodge, so that by the time our ships try to shoot back— _if_ they can shoot back—there’s nothing there, and the Klingons are free to attack from another vector.”

 

She began pacing the floor in front of the desk, hands gesticulating wildly, dark eyes sparkling, and a wonderful enthusiasm in her voice that Philippa would never—in a million years—have associated with her _‘cold fish’_ of a security chief.

 

“Some months ago, I did a comparative military history and warfare doctrine, between the Klingons and the major species of the Federation—Vulcans, Andorians, Humans and Tellarites—and except for Humans, none have anything like anti-submarine warfare tactics; _everything_ is informed by land or air-based warfare doctrines, and when they moved into space, they took that mindset with them. Vulcan is a world of deserts—large continents separated by narrow and shallow seas—and the Vulcan people, adapted as they are to desert conditions, rarely have anything to do with large bodies of water. In fact,” she laughed, “one of their greatest feats of ancient engineering was the Great Bridge of Tevak, spanning from one continent to another, just so they didn’t have to get their feet wet!”

 

“While Andoria is almost completely frozen, except for the thin band about the equator, and most of Tellar Prime’s water is subterranean, with only very small, shallow lakes and seas at the surface,” Philippa noted, warming to the subject.

 

“Exactly, captain!” Landry said grinning. “But the Klingons also never had much in the way of water-based warfare, ma’am, because they never _needed_ to develop it! Although it has a lot of water, Qo’noS has only _one_ dominant and rather volcanic super continent, which takes up about forty-five percent of the planet’s surface, where ninety-nine percent of all Klingons live, and a few off-coast archipelagos of small islands. The rest of the planet is a vast, open ocean with a lot of raging mega-storms, which makes it difficult to sail even now, and the atmosphere as thick as my grandmother’s _dahl_.”

 

“Therefore, all their planetary warfare doctrine was also land or air-based.”

 

“Yes, according to everything we’ve been able to collect on their culture, although they did some sailing, it wasn’t like the sailing we do on Earth—crossing extremely large and extremely deep oceans—they stuck fairly close to land. In fact, most Klingons don’t even _like_ being on the water, much less _submerging_ a ship in it.”

 

“So, what is your idea, commander?” Philippa asked, marvelling at the woman’s transformation when given a subject she was passionate about.

 

“Depth charges, captain!” she said, her grin becoming more predatory. “The new tricobalt devices dropped from warp into the middle of those formations that _‘oh,_ _we can’t see’_ , programmed to explode in proximity to those null-fields, and followed by photon torpedoes or phasers, if we need to mop up. And with their cloaks up, they won’t have any shields—”

 

“The devices will be devastating, and they don’t need to be accurate. But torpedoes would probably be the most effective follow on weapon.”

 

“Aye captain; even with our improved targeting systems, trying to hit something at high warp with a phaser is easier said than done,” Landry said ruefully. “A bit like trying to shoot a mosquito with a crossbow bolt sometimes.”

 

Philippa laughed heartily. “You certainly have a way with metaphors, commander.” Landry ducked her head with embarrassment. “All right,” she continued, “let’s see if we can refine _our_ parameters—work out what sort of intervals we’re talking about, warp velocity, weapons yield—as many of those little details we need. In fact, how many tricobalt devices do we have?”

 

“Thirty-five, a full payload, captain,” she answered smartly. Retrieving her PADD, she consulted it briefly. “We have one hundred and ninety-three photon torpedoes, but only sixty-seven are the newer Type 5—”

 

“We’ll make do,” Philippa quipped, feeling much more confident about the operation, and her chief of security, as they ran down the list of prototype weapons also being developed in _Discovery’s_ labs.

 

#


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter with a little Michael in it! Sorry, in my zeal to tell Philippa's point of view and establish Landry, I honestly didn't realize it had taken me so long to get back to Michael. This chapter has only a taste of her, but she's back in her all her glory starting in Chapter 11. 
> 
> I also introduce an original character that I hope everyone will like - I mentioned his name earlier, but this is his first time on stage, so please be kind. LOLOL!!!

_Get that grin off your face_ , Philippa told herself for the tenth time that morning—and it was only 0700 hours. _No one wants to see their captain grinning like a crazy person_. She looked down at her console and the grin came back.

 

_Damnit!_

 

But Michael’s presentation was a thing of beauty, and it meshed well with the tactical plan she and Landry had thrashed out in the wee hours of the morning.

 

Her door chimed and she called for the person to enter. Yeoman M’Kiliss bustled in, balancing a breakfast tray and a PADD.

 

“Captain, you do realise that eating is a biological necessity, not merely a _suggestion_ , do you not?” he said without preamble.

 

She smiled at his familiar scolding. “I do eat,” she retorted as he placed the tray in front of her and uncovered it, jostling her console and various PADDs out of the way. The scent of her favourite breakfast of plain rice _bubur_ with spices, a small bowl of steamed vegetables in broth with tofu and a pot of ginger tea, made her stomach grumble, belying her statement. “All right, all right! I’ll eat,” she capitulated, laughing as she tasted her first spoonful of the delicious rice porridge.

 

The Caitian’s golden eyes glared pointedly at her, and he rumbled a low growl, as his cat-like ears stood straight up and his prehensile tail twitched. “I see that Commander Landry was entirely correct to order Chef Zhang to prepare your tray this morning—you worked through the night, didn’t you?”

 

Philippa groaned. “I suppose I’ve now added Ms Landry to the _Philippa Georgiou Babysitters’ Club_ , haven’t I?”

 

“And it’s about time,” he rumbled. “I was wondering how long it would take her to _get her head out of her ass_ —you Humans do come up with the _loveliest_ expressions—and get over her Captain Lorca being denied this command. I take it you and she hashed things out last night?”

 

“You could say that … things came to a head.”

 

“Over your beautiful former XO and whatever she has done to get Stamets’ Cloak Busting Crew’s collective _panties in a twist?_ ” he said, eyes twinkling.

 

“You’re scary, you know that?”

 

“Not half as scary as _you_ , my captain,” he replied, deadly serious now. “What happened last night? I came here expecting to tidy up a little, dispose of the remnants of your meal—maybe discretely pull your panties from between the couch cushions—”

 

She giggled, which gave way—like quicksand beneath her feet—to a soft sob and, to her mortification, tears.

 

“I didn’t expect to be picking up bits of broken china and cleaning food off the walls,” he said, pulling her up into a bear-hug. “I didn’t expect to have to recycle two of your most beautiful and precious possessions, captain—the place looked like a warzone.”

 

Philippa revelled in his soft, warm embrace for a moment and the illusion of safety it gave her. “I’m sorry you had to see that—to clean that up. I’ve been such a fool, Liss,” she said, voice slightly muffled by his tawny fur. “Such a terribly old, blind _fool_.”

 

“You’re a Starfleet captain,” he replied. “You’re allowed to be a fool sometimes—it’s practically part of the job description.” She couldn’t help but giggle into his fur. “Now what have you been so terribly foolish about, my captain, and how can I help put it to rights?”

 

She sighed and stepped back from his embrace; she’d only known him for the last ten months, and she’d fought against it when Katrina had first suggested assigning her a personal yeoman during her rehabilitation, but now she was glad she’d finally given in and accepted him, not only as someone to deal with all the niggly clerical jobs and everyday fleet reports and communiques, but as a friend. Independent _cuss_ that she was, she’d often looked down on those captains—who relied on yeomen to do administrative work—as self-indulgent, but she realised that although some were all about the implied status having one represented, the yeomen themselves provided a vital service to the officers they supported. And though some took it as an alternate path into the commissioned officer ranks, M’Kiliss—during his nearly fifty years in Starfleet—had never aspired to be anything but the best, most professional, _yeoman_ he could be.

 

Philippa sat down again and, drying her eyes, gestured to his usual chair by her desk. “I need you to do two things for me, Liss,” she said as he dropped with preternatural grace into the chair. “I need you to—as discretely as possible—put one, maybe two people you trust implicitly, to watch over Michael.” His large, golden eyes widened, but he remained silent. “I don’t mean a protection detail exactly—Lord knows that she’s capable of physically defending herself, and she’d have my head if she found out—but she is rather oblivious to gossip and other subtle forms of attack. And the older I get, the less patience I have for such things, so I haven’t exactly been diligent in keeping my finger on the pulse of the ship—I need to be more proactive about that.”

 

“There are a couple of people that I can speak to,” he rumbled quietly. “Do you need to know who they are?”

 

“No, I trust you with this,” she replied. “I just need to know that someone has her back, if she needs it, or can keep you abreast of things that can spill over to hurt her.”

 

“Consider it done, my captain. And the second thing.”

 

“I will need you to handle this personally,” Philippa said taking one of his large furry hands. “Last night I found that there were surveillance devices _inside_ her quarters—”

 

 _“D’gurathrr!”_ he swore, with a low—almost subsonic—roar. “Landry?” he questioned, to her considerable surprise.

 

“Lorca through Landry, yes,” she replied.

 

“And you didn’t toss her out an _airlock_?” he growled, and she was _almost_ sure he was joking.

 

“Believe me, I came close,” she admitted. “But there was a measure of rather underhanded _manipulation_ involved … and well, the rest is classified. Needless to say, Commander Landry will be checking her moral compass with me from time to time.”

 

“Hence her joining the _Club_ this morning,” he chuckled. “She really is a good officer, you know.”

 

“I know—last night was an eye-opener … once I got past the notion of chucking her out of an airlock,” she said with a laugh, before sobering up again. “Anyway, I’ve destroyed the devices, but if you can remove the remnants—perhaps while Michael is conducting this morning’s briefing—and store them securely, until I can return to my quarters this afternoon to take possession of them, I would appreciate it. I’ll let her know that I’ve asked you to do this; there have been enough _violations_ of her privacy.”

 

“Oh, my captain,” he said squeezing her hand gently.

 

“They even had them inside her bedroom … inside her _bathroom_ , Liss—” She felt that familiar tightening in her chest and willed her tears away; no time for that again this morning or she would never _stop_ crying.

 

“I’ll take care of it right away,” he promised her.

 

“Thank you,” she replied, feeling a modicum of control returning. “And if you have the time, come to engineering for the briefing—see why she _belongs_ here on this ship.”

 

“I need no other reason than she is your _mate_ , my captain,” he replied rising from the chair and handing her the PADD with his morning briefing. “However, given wailings and recriminations among Stamets’ Cloak Busters and Airiam’s Quantum Geeks this morning, I would guess that your brilliant Lady has figured out the Klingon cloaking devices, hasn’t she.”

 

Philippa laughed, dispelling some of that tightness in her chest. “You truly are one _scary_ being, my friend!”

 

“ _Your_ scary being, my captain!” he growled, then bowed solemnly and left.

 

She studied the door thoughtfully for a few moments after it closed, before returning her attention to her breakfast.

 

 _I need to make better use of all my ship’s assets_ , she mused as she ate a few bites, _and this is only a first step. I need to learn to be Philippa Khan Xiu Ying once again—Starfleet Intelligence and Section 31 Infiltration Operative—or at least, once more, embody some aspects of her_.

 

“Computer, where is Science Specialist Michael Burnham and is she currently alone?”

 

“Science Specialist Michael Burnham is currently alone in her quarters.”

 

“Georgiou to Burnham; good morning, Michael. Do you have a moment to talk?”

 

“Good morning, Philippa!” she replied; Philippa imagined she could hear that radiant smile in her voice. “I was just about to head out to the mess hall, to get something to eat with Cadet Tilly before the briefing.”

 

“Then I won’t keep you, dearest,” she said gently. “I just wanted to let you know that I’ve asked Yeoman M’Kiliss to remove those _offending_ _items_ from your quarters and secure them for me. He should be there shortly and he will be very discrete.”

 

“Thank you, Philippa, I appreciate it.”

 

“Nothing to thank me for, love; enjoy your breakfast and I’ll see you shortly in engineering. Georgiou out.”

 

She quickly finished the last of her _bubur_ and a bit of the vegetables and tofu, before gulping down some tea. If she hurried, she could swing by the bridge before heading down to engineering.

 

#

 


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, Michael presents her work!

Within five minutes of the presentation’s beginning, the overwhelming shock was complete. Even Landry, who’d known the substance of Michael’s theory, stood gaping with as much astonishment as everyone gathered in engineering—indeed, everyone following on their screens; Philippa was sure of it.

 

She was glad that they were currently hidden in Ankaali Nebula near Deneva in the Orion Sector, secure from prying eyes while they completed their preparations. Landry had even suggested walking the hull to make sure shield emitters, phaser banks, torpedo launchers and sensor emplacements were in top shape; a suggestion that had a great deal of merit and one she would be implementing. Once the ship was ready, they would jump to just outside the active star-forming region in the Hromi Cluster—which, although still in Federation space, was just about twenty-five light years from Qo’noS, the Klingon homeworld.

 

A lot of the outposts on the border of Klingon space had been obliterated in their push into Federation space, including Starbase 24, resulting in a loss of almost ten percent of the sectors along the Klingon border. However, a listening post near Omega Leonis was still intact, for now, and had identified at least five task forces of the Klingon fleet, consisting of three to five ships each, entering for resupply or leaving the heavily fortified Korvat system shipyard. Given that Korvat was less than fifteen light years from Qo’noS, strikes on Klingon ships that deep in their territory, would definitely have a devastating effect on them, perhaps enough of one to pause their advance along the Xarantine to Japori front. And destroying the Klingon assets in Korvat would deny the enemy a great deal of material support that forward base represented.

 

From the Hromi Cluster, _Discovery_ would jump to a red dwarf star designated Delta 6, just three light years from Korvat, then head towards their target at high warp … to set up and spring her traps. As a major shipyard, Korvat was also known to have a number of deadly, cloaked weapons platforms defending the system, so taking those out as well would be a definite bonus.

 

Follow-up strikes on ships at No’mat and Ganalda would also drive home the fact that the Federation could see them now—and get to them deep in their territory—but they were less sure of their intelligence about those star systems; so, she would have to play them by ear.

 

“The subspace flow-fields, right at the space-subspace interface, are in constant flux,” Michael was saying as Philippa tuned back in to the presentation; her love was so focussed on delivering her work that she didn’t seem to register her audience’s deep state of shock. “Although scanning for tachyon disruptions will be invaluable, especially to increase the resolution of the null-fields around individual ships—and separate them from most sensor ghosts we might encounter—it is the scanning for subspace-phased quantum field particles, specifically dekyons, that will best describe the quantum null-field where an active cloak is affecting the subspace flow-field.

 

“However, because of the way _Discovery’s_ spore drive operates, we will need to shut it down; this will necessitate the use of conventional warp drive to accomplish these scans and any subsequent engagement with cloaked Klingon ships—”

 

“Why?” demanded Lieutenant Jennilee Harrington, one of Stamets’ engineers. “We would be giving up a major advantage if we shut down the spore drive.”

 

“In this case, the spore drive would _not_ be an advantage, Lieutenant Harrington,” Michael replied, bringing up another hologram of a dynamic subspace flow-field, and charting particle movements in comparison to a simulated jump.

 

“ _Discovery’s_  displacement-activated spore hub drive also affects superluminal particle trajectory in the flow-fields at the space-subspace interface and using it during an engagement of this nature would be foolhardy, as it would leave large affected areas—sensor ghosts—that would degrade our ability to scan for cloaked ships, depending on how far or how many jumps are made in an area. The longer the jump, the larger the affected area of the flow-field when we jump to normal space, and the more jumps, the more ghosts we’ll leave behind. Therefore, for this to be effective, if we are to go on the offensive, I would recommend that _Discovery_ jump to an area at least three to five light years from its target area and shut down the spore drive, then cycle our shield frequencies for at least half an hour to purge any residual quantum field effects, before moving in at warp.

 

“If we had access to more ships, I would suggest a multi-pronged, multi-vector attack, but because of the distances involved, that tactic would not be practical except in Federation space. For a mission to Klingon space, we would need to disable or destroy as many ships as possible, as quickly as possible. So, I would recommend something like a barrage of photon torpedoes, sent at the cloaked ships, would be best. Even near misses would damage or even destroy their ships, as they are unable to raise shields while the cloaks are engaged. Photon torpedoes would also be effective on single cloaked ships, while I estimate phasers will be less so, but powerful enough to still do quite a bit of damage—especially if enemy ships are unable to disengage the cloak and raise shields quickly or they fall to sublight.”

 

“Thank you, Science Specialist Burnham,” Philippa said smiling; Michael nodded politely with a small smile of her own, but her eyes literally glowed with excitement. “Commander Landry will be briefing us on the basic tactical doctrine we’ve formulated to take advantage of Specialist Burnham’s theory, but before we do so, does anyone have any questions?”

 

There was another moment of shocked silence, as they realised Landry already knew Michael’s theory, and Philippa thought she heard the distinct rumbling laughter of a Caitian, that was quickly truncated by a growled cough.

 

“How were you able to formulate this theory so quickly, Specialist Burnham?” asked Dr. Culber with a gentle smile.

 

“I was actually studying the Tardigrade, sir, when I first began to understand the implications of what I was seeing both in context regarding the alien and in context of the Klingons’ cloaking technology,” she replied, eyes sparkling.

 

 _Of course, she would be most interested in studying the Tardigrade_ , Philippa thought fondly. _To the xenoanthropologist in Michael, finding the solution to the mystery of the Klingon cloak would have been secondary to unravelling the mysteries of this alien creature._

#

 

Within days of boarding Discovery, Michael had quickly developed a rapport … an affinity even … with the alien, and she had come to the conclusion that it was undeniably intelligent and may even be _sentient_.

 

After the blowout with Stamets, and the engineer had left the ready room with his captain’s assurance that she would not release the Tardigrade, Michael had looked at Philippa with such sadness and disappointment as she accepted the verdict.

 

_“I cannot believe you would condone such treatment of an innocent lifeform, Captain Georgiou—even if it isn’t sentient.”_

In those early days she’d always been Captain Georgiou to Michael, never Philippa, and it had hurt her heart.

 

 _“I have no choice, Michael,” she replied, allowing her desperation to show to the only person on the ship she could allow to see it. “I have teams working as quickly as possible to figure out how it navigates the mycelial plane, but until we have a solution, we need it to make the drive work. We are_ losing _this war, Michael,” she admitted looking away, unable to bear such disappointment in her love’s eyes, and brought up a hologram of Federation space near the Klingon border. “We’ve lost most engagements, lost nearly ten percent of our sectors adjacent to the border, lost entire_ worlds _and over_ 70,000 lives! _”_

_It was then that she felt a warm, comforting hand cover her own, and she instinctively clutched it and held on for dear life._

_“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few—or the one,” her love whispered gently. “I understand, Philippa; I won’t broach the subject again with Lieutenant Stamets.”_

That first utterance of her name, after so many months of not hearing it in that lovely voice, had been a balm on Philippa’s ragged soul.

 

_“It’s just—” she stopped and rose, visibly shutting down as she withdrew her hand from Philippa’s grasp. “With the captain’s permission, I’ll go now.”_

_“Please Michael,” Philippa begged desperately, reaching for her hand again. “If nothing else, I am_ still _your friend. It’s still_ me _, Philippa. What were you going to say?”_

_After a long minute, Michael nodded her acceptance, and in that moment, Philippa saw a glimmer of hope in her dark eyes._

_“Since the first jump after coming onboard, seeing the Tardigrade in such pain, I’ve had nightmares,” she admitted quietly, looking down at their joined hands. “It seems to cry out to me and it is in such_ distress _.”_

_“Oh Michael,” Philippa husked, hating the pain in her love’s voice and knowing that she was contributing to it, and would continue to do so. Her hollow, “I’m sorry,” was insufficient._

_“It is all right, Philippa, I will adapt,” she replied with a small smile. “May I have your permission to observe it, even when out of the drive cube?”_

_“Of course.”_

_“Thank you.”_

And that short exchange had given Philippa the courage to hope again that it would be possible to rebuild her relationship with Michael.

 

#

 

“I was trying to figure out how the Tardigrade instinctively knows to bring _Discovery_ not only to the right exit location targeted in a jump, but to the right exit location in _our_ quantum plane of _our_ omnicordial universe,” Michael explained with an infectious smile. “I thought that if we figure that out, we could come up with an algorithm to model it and eventually a way to navigate the network ourselves—perhaps even an artificial intelligence. According to Lieutenant Stamets’ work, the mycelial network theoretically connects all quantum planes of reality, in every universe in the multiverse. There is also strong evidence that the Tardigrade itself is a trans-dimensional or even _pan-universal_ being, not only naturally capable of jumping about our quantum reality, but theoretically across _all_ quantum realities, dimensions and universes. Therefore, all things being equal, how does it know to always deliver _Discovery_ back _here_ every single time—why not the myriad other realities and universes?”

 

She brought up another graphic on the holo-projector as they all—including Philippa—stared in _gobsmacked_ disbelief. “I have noticed that on the mycelial plane, there is a strong correlation between the pattern of mycelial growth the Tardigrade uses to navigate our jumps and the pattern of not only the superluminal particle trajectory through the subspace flow-fields at the interface, but the orientation of the _established_ flow-fields themselves, especially those left by subspace-phased quantum field particles—dekyons having the strongest correlation, but also to a lesser degree, gamma-centyons and Dr. Shrath’s _Orket-ti-tiam_ particle, which shows up both on the mycelial plane and in a phased mirror form in established space-subspace flow-fields.” She nodded to the older Andorian physicist, who had been studying the physics of the mycelial plane.

 

“Sorry, I only had a limited number of sample data sets to analyse, but my theory is that this may be how the Tardigrade knows which part of the mycelial plane corresponds with _our_ quantum reality—our plane of existence in our omnicordial universe—and is able to navigate it. I think that somehow, while it is in our spore drive cube, because of the ship’s phasic shielding, it may only be able to sense _our_ part of the mycelial plane, and that may give us a measure of protection from ending up in other realities or even other universes. I also think that our spores, having the corresponding quantum signature as everything in our reality, together with some innate sensing mechanism it might possess, may also help keep the Tardigrade oriented towards our quantum reality with each jump—rather like how some Terran birds have biogenic crystals of magnetite in the trigeminal system of their brains, and use the Earth’s magnetic fields to orient them during migrations.

 

“However, studying the Tardigrade, and the consequences of it jumping _Discovery_ and navigating through the mycelial plane, is what got me thinking about how the Klingon cloaks would affect the flow-fields at the interface of space and subspace.”

 

 _“Oh wow!”_ Cadet Sylvia Tilly said with definite awe, looking at Michael in a distinctly worshipful way. _“Oh. My. God! Michael!”_ she screamed gleefully.

 

There was one chuckle, then another, and another … then Lieutenant Keyla Detmer began a slow clap, that was joined by Landry, then Rhys, Saru, Owosekun, Tilly, Culber, Stamets, Bryce and so on, until the entire room resounded with applause.

 

Michael ducked her head with embarrassment, but Tilly was having none of that. She grabbed one of Michael’s hands and lifted it above her head, shaking it in triumph and cheering—and engineering erupted in cheers and laughter and _relief_.

 

“Thank you, Science Specialist Burnham,” Philippa said loudly, allowing her undeniable pride to shine forth. “Thank you! All right everyone, please settle down—Commander Landry will now give a brief overview of how we intend to take advantage of this new theory. Commander.”

 

Landry smiled and brought up her presentation on the projector. “Thank you, captain,” she began. “And thank you, Specialist Burnham. As you suggested, we will need to take out as many enemy ships as quickly as possible, and while a flack barrage is a great idea, we don’t really have the torpedo stores to make it feasible plan, especially if we want to do the maximum amount of damage, while spending the shortest amount of time in Klingon space. Therefore, the captain and I have decided to look back to Earth’s pre-space days and employ anti-submarine warfare tactics against the Klingons.”

 

 _“Yes!”_ Lieutenant Rhys shouted, fist-pumping the air in excitement and Philippa couldn’t help but laugh.

 

“Submarine?” asked Dr. Shrath, expressing the confusion of most of the non-Human crew and quite a few of the Human crew as well.

 

“Back in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries on Earth,” Landry explained, “Humans conducted warfare not only using land and air tactics, but also extensive naval tactics involving ships on both the surface of our oceans and submerged _below_ the surface as well.”

 

“And here I thought that you crazy pink-skins couldn’t get any crazier!” the old Andorian laughed, sending a ripple of hilarity throughout the room.

 

“We will employ the new tricobalt devices as—”

 

“Depth charges!” Rhys said excitedly, before looking distinctly chagrinned at his outburst.

 

“Exactly, lieutenant,” Landry said smiling at her enthusiastic junior. “They will be dropped at warp and like old-fashioned depth charges, they will have proximity fuses targeted to the null-field parameters. If there are any intact ships left after the explosion, they can be targeted with photon torpedoes—phasers will be less effective during high warp manoeuvres, but as Specialist Burnham pointed out, can still do a lot of damage to unshielded ships, even with a glancing blow.”

 

She brought up another hologram, of _Discovery_ being chased by Klingon ships. “But for this to be effective, we will need to get them to come after us, to give us the best chance of dropping the tricobalt device in the middle of an enemy formation. We’ll start simulation runs this afternoon, but you should all be aware that we will be adjusting on the fly, so I will need suggestions from anyone and everyone to adjust or improve our tactics and defenses—because, people, although we have a solid base plan, we’re going into uncharted territory in more ways than one, and as von Moltke said, _“No plan of operations extends with certainty beyond the first encounter with the enemy's main strength”_ or, in other words, _“No battle plan survives first contact with the enemy”_. So, don’t be afraid to speak up; I promise we will at least listen to your suggestions.”

 

Philippa nodded with approval as the assembled personnel burst into a spate of excited chatter; it was as if new life had been breathed into her crew.

 

“Captain, would you like to say a few words?” Landry asked quietly.

 

Philippa looked at her in surprise; she hadn’t planned to, but she realised that she should have prepared a short speech. She nodded to the dark-skinned woman. “Thank you, commander. Please put me through ship-wide.”

 

“Yes, captain,” she replied, nodding when the channel was ready. Meeting Michael’s happy gaze, Philippa reached deep inside for something to say.

 

“What you have seen and heard here today, is the culmination of the work of many _individuals_. _Discovery_ was conceived as a science ship, a ship of exploration, where _individuals_ could come together to collaborate and explore our vast universe. Today, by necessity, she is a _ship of war_ , and all of _you_ —whether officer, enlisted, civilian, scientist, engineer, healer—we are all today, _warriors!_ Our enemy wanted this war—to unite their Houses … to glorify their so-called messiah … to show our galactic community their strength and their _honour_ —to earn an _honourable death_ and their place in Sto-vo-kor! They have _denigrated_ the United Federation of Planets, all our peoples and all we have built … denigrated _us_ as weak and homogenized, because we strove for _peace!_

 

“But _we_ know the _truth_ ; war is not about glory … it is not really even about honour. There are rarely honourable deaths in war, only _blood_ and _guts_ and _screams_ , even when there is no one there to witness it— _especially_ when there is no one to witness it. It isn’t weakness to strive for peace … peace takes _strength_ , and yes, peace takes _blood_ and _guts_ and _screams_ ; _we_ recognise that. And look around you—we are _not_ homogenized, we are a whole; a whole comprised of individuals … individual persons … individual peoples … individual species … individual worlds— _we_ are a great _Federation of Individuals_. They _believe_ that to accept other species is to _pollute_ themselves and to _weaken_ what it is to be Klingon; we _know_ that to accept other species is to _add_ to ourselves and to _strengthen_ who we are! We _know_ that there is _strength in diversity_ and there is _infinite diversity in infinite combinations_ , and therefore, _infinite strength_ to be found in embracing our _diversity_ in this _combination of peoples, species and worlds_ that is _our Federation!_

 

“The Klingons believe that _they_ are the only _true_ warriors; they forget that each of our species, in each of our own unique and myriad ways, are _warriors_ as well—that _we_ have all _fought_ for the _right_ to be where we are today, to be out here among the stars … that _we_ have all given _blood_ and _guts_ and _screams_ for the peace that our Federation is _renowned_ for. They have forgotten that we are _honourable warriors_ in our own _right_ , and so, we shall _remind_ them, by taking _war_ to them; we shall take _Discovery_ into Klingon space and _remind_ them.

 

“ _They wanted this war; and so, we shall give them a belly full of war!_ ”

 

#

 


	12. Chapter 12

The roar of cheering from her crew after her speech had been overwhelming; the look of love and pride in Michael’s eyes, doubly so.

 

Her ship was now ready for the hunt; her crew had worked double-time over the last three days to get everything done, pushing themselves beyond their limits to do so—and none more so than Michael. And Philippa was damned proud of them all.

 

 _Damned proud_ , she thought fondly, passing two tired-looking petty officers—from one of Landry’s torpedo bay teams—who grinned happily at her.

 

“Captain,” PO Thomas Qamaniq said with a courteous nod. “Will you be at tonight’s party, ma’am?”

 

She returned their smiles. “It all depends on my better half, Mr. Qamaniq,” she replied, “but I would imagine so.”

 

“Outstanding!” he laughed, pulling Julia Weston down the corridor after him. “See you there!”

 

Shaking her head, she continued towards Michael’s quarters, becoming aware of pounding music the closer she got. For a moment, she thought that the music was coming from the party, before dismissing the ridiculous notion—there was no way she could hear that all the way down here—then she realised it was coming from Michael’s quarters.

 

She pressed the announcer and waited; there was no response—not surprising, with that racket, Michael probably couldn’t hear it. Philippa tapped her code into the door lock and as it slid open, she walked into a veritable _wall of sound_ filled with crashing instruments and contagious beats and wailing voices.

 

_… the sky was all purple,_

_There were people runnin’ everywhere_

_Tryin’ to run from the destruction,_

_You know I didn’t even care!_

 

Through Michael’s open bedroom door, she could see Sylvia Tilly and Joann Owosekun bumping hips and singing at the top of their lungs as they worked on Michael’s hair—which Owosekun was styling into a mass of tiny twists, while Tilly seemed to be an extra pair of hands, holding the hair cream, comb and other styling accoutrements when Joann wasn’t using them.

 

_They say two thousand zero, zero, party over,_

_Oops, out of time!_

_So, tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1999!_

 

Philippa stifled her giggles behind her hand at the surprising scene, as she moved to stand by the wall where she could see into the room, but still remain rather hidden.

 

_I was dreamin’ when I wrote this_

_So, sue me if I go too fast_

_But life is just a party, and parties weren’t meant to last_

_War is all around us, my mind says prepare to fight_

_So, if I gotta die, I’m gonna listen to my body tonight_

 

She could just make out Keyla Detmer’s voice over the music. “I think that the Sinful Port suits you best! It’s a deep wine red, with just a hint of chocolate, that will go so beautifully with your skin tone,” the helmswoman said as she leaned in to apply the lipstick to Michael’s full lips.

 

_Yeah, they say two thousand zero, zero, party over,_

_Oops, out of time!_

_So, tonight I’m gonna party like it’s 1999!_

_Yeah!_

 

Detmer danced out of the bedroom humming; as she turned towards the coffee table, laden with snacks, she met Philippa’s gaze in shock and stopped dead in her tracks. Philippa shook with laughter, holding one finger up to her lips in the universal sign for silence. Inside the bedroom, Owosekun continued to sing along as she worked on Michael’s hair, while Tilly was more interested in dancing—or rather, bouncing around the room like a child’s rubber ball, while Michael laughed a bright, sparkling laugh at her antics.

 

_If you didn’t come to party,_

_Don’t bother knockin’ on my door!_

_I got a lion in my pocket,_

_And baby he’s ready to roar!_

_Yeah, everybody’s got a bomb,_

_We could all die any day_

_But before I’ll let that happen,_

_I’ll dance my life away …_

 

Tilly twirled out of control, dancing through the doorway, careening into the still stunned Detmer standing just beyond the threshold, and driving them both to the deck in a tangled pile of arms and legs. The giggling girl’s eyes widened as she registered Philippa’s presence.

 

“ _Captain!_ Sorry captain—didn’t see you there!” she babbled.

 

“Computer, end music!” Detmer called as she pushed the younger girl off her and stood up.

 

“It looks like you didn’t see poor Keyla there either, Ms Tilly,” Philippa chuckled, her voice sounding overly loud in the sudden silence.

 

 _“Philippa!”_ Michael yelped in surprise; she ran from the bedroom, with Owosekun following at a more sedate pace.

 

“Hello, my dear,” she replied; Michael automatically reached for her, stepping into her space with a naturalness Philippa found so overpowering that it annihilated any thought of maintaining propriety in front of her junior officers. It also didn’t help that Michael was beaming a smile that literally took her breath away and made her forget the others in the room.

 

Her hand reached up of its own volition, to dance among the soft twists of hair—each, a tiny question mark, and its own answer, entwined. The very _same_ _answer_ to every question.

 

_Who are you?_

_My love._

_What are you?_

_My love._

_Why are you here?_

_My love._

 

 _“Beautiful,”_ Philippa breathed at last. “Thank you, Joann—thank you all,” she said collecting herself again.

 

Owosekun chuckled knowingly. “You’re welcome, captain. Well ladies, I think our work here is done!”

 

She and Detmer started toward the door, but Tilly stood frozen, just grinning happily at them; Detmer rolled her eyes expressively, then darted back to yank the cadet by the arm and drag her toward door.

 

“See you at the party!” Tilly squealed, voice taking on an almost helium-induced quality. “Unless, of course, we don’t—because you want to stay here and enjoy each other … uh … _each other’s company_ —then that’s totally good too! Just have fun, okay?” she burbled happily, then blushed beet-red as the connotations of what she’d said struck. Both Detmer and Owosekun goggled at the younger girl’s daring.

 

“Oh, I fully intend to, Ms Tilly,” Philippa quipped.

 

“Oh! My! God! _Tilly!_ ” Detmer shouted, outrage dissolving into contagious laughter, as she, and a giggling Owosekun, grabbed the girl again and frog-marched her out the door.

 

“I _fully_ intend to,” she repeated, turning her increasingly heated gaze on Michael, whose own concerned gaze was still focussed on the closed door.

 

“Sorry,” she said, “sometimes she really has _no_ filters.”

 

Philippa laughed heartily. “She’ll either go very far, or cause an interstellar diplomatic incident,” she observed.

 

“Or both,” Michael chuckled, “only time will tell.”

 

“Indeed,” Philippa replied. “She reminds me a lot of Katrina when she was younger.”

 

“Then she’ll probably go _very_ far,” Michael said grinning broadly. “She wants to be captain someday—from there, it’s only _‘a hop, skip and jump’_ to admiral, as Amanda would put it,” she finished fondly.

 

“Well, I am _tempted_ to follow her suggestion and stay here with you … enjoy your _company_ ,” Philippa said, eyeing her appreciatively.

 

Michael wore a deep claret mini dress, in an asymmetric cut—its hem starting at mid-thigh on the right, then flowing down to the side of her left knee—which was paired with plain black tights. The top was tight, with a high neckline skimming her collarbones and long tight sleeves. The neckline, waistline, cuffs and hem were all trimmed with a wide band of black lace, and on a hunch, Philippa rotated behind her to admire the back of it—what little there was of it.

 

Michael looked shyly over her shoulder, as Philippa drank in the smooth expanse of beautiful brown skin, edged by black lace coming together in a plunging v-line at the small of her back.

 

“Oh, my darling, you look good enough to _eat_ ,” she purred. “And while it would be a shame _not_ to show off the girls’ lovely work, I’m not entirely sure I am willing to _share_ so much of what I consider to be _mine_ alone!”

 

Michael laughed, turning fully to face Philippa; her Soulstone pendant sparkled where it rested above the swell of her breasts. “Well, as our amazingly wise Miss Tilly put it when I expressed hesitancy today about wearing the dress, _‘everyone on this ship knows that while they may look, no one would dare touch, as our captain is known to be rather …_ aggressive _in defending what she considers_ hers _, and is extremely good not only with a phaser, but also with a sword!’_ ”

 

Philippa chuckled. “I think I may have to promote our _‘amazingly wise Miss Tilly’_ sooner rather than later,” she said and then sighed as the door chimed.

 

Michael stifled a giggle and called for her guest to enter.

 

“There you are!” M’Kiliss entered with a quick, fluid grace that belied his large size, moving rather like a tornado through Michael’s space—dropping a garment bag onto the couch, sliding a carryall from his shoulder to _thump!_ on the deck and gently placing a large tray and a chiller onto the coffee table.

 

“The food will keep,” he declared, careening towards Philippa and ushering her towards the bedroom. “You need to get into the shower and get ready, my captain.” Philippa opened her mouth to protest and noticed Michael gaping at the Caitian in absolute awe; she laughed inwardly. “You don’t think I’m about to let you go to the party in that _uniform_ , do you?”

 

“I am the captain!” Philippa retorted, putting up a token resistance, but thoroughly enjoying the by-play. “My uniform is entirely appropriate.”

 

“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. “And just how _relaxed_ do you think everyone will be in their _glad-rags_ —don’t you just love Human sayings?” he said grinning fearsomely at Michael. “And their captain is there in her _uniform_ ,” he continued, regarding Philippa with an offended sniff. “And especially with your Lady on your arm dressed so beautifully?”

 

“You really are an _impossible_ being,” she muttered, making a great show of grumbling, but nonetheless, picking up the garment bag.

 

He retrieved and handed her the carryall as well. “It has your makeup, shoes and … _unmentionables_ ,” he said chivying her through the bedroom, as Michael burst into a gale of giggles.

 

Philippa smiled at the lovely sound and hurried into the bathroom.

 

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted is "1999" by Prince
> 
>  


	13. Chapter 13

“All right! We’re spending an hour—tops—at this thing and then we’re going back to your quarters and enjoying that wine!” Philippa muttered out the side of her mouth as they strolled towards the mess hall.

 

Michael chuckled. “Among other things?” she queried as the music grew louder.

 

“Among _many_ other, most _pleasurable_ , things.”

 

“Then you’ll get no argument from me.” Her eyes shifted, making sure no one was in earshot, then she leaned in close to Philippa’s ear. “I can’t wait to get you out of that delectable suit,” she said boldly, eying the elegant midnight blue suit shot with silver pin-striping, as they entered. A crisp, white silk shirt and a lighter silver-blue waistcoat completed the ensemble.

 

Philippa gave a low chuckle, placing her hand on the lace at the small of Michael’s back. “No more than I can wait to get you out of that positively _sinful_ dress.”

 

She felt her love give an involuntary shudder and heard her sharp intake of breath. Philippa caught her free hand and expertly pulled Michael to her. A slow song was playing, so she moved to lead Michael in simple box-step. And then, the most _extraordinary_ thing happened; her normally poised and graceful lover _stumbled_ , then stepped on her toes, and almost fell over her own feet trying to right herself.

 

Philippa looked at Michael with new eyes. “You do not know how to dance?” she murmured softly into her ear. Michael nodded, dark eyes unhappy … embarrassed … and Philippa was glad of the polite space her crew had automatically accorded them. “Oh, my darling, I have so much to _teach_ you,” she purred, smiling to put her love’s mind at ease. “But for now, just put your arms around me, hold me closer and follow where my hand on your hip directs you. Okay?”

 

Michael mustered a smile. “I will follow wherever you wish to direct me,” she promised, and Philippa leaned up to kiss her gently, before settling back into a shuffling two-step.

 

Philippa couldn’t believe she hadn’t known this, given all the years they’d served together, but she realised that as a child of Vulcan, dancing was probably not something that would have been on Michael’s radar. It was certainly not a Vulcan cultural pastime, and for the traumatised child she had been, emulating Sarek, her foster father, and his culture had been paramount to her. She recognised that in Michael’s child-mind, _if she had no emotions to feel, she could not get hurt_ —for she certainly would not have wanted to again experience the kind of pain she’d felt at the loss of her birth parents. Philippa was just glad that Michael’s foster mother, Amanda, had been able to impart as much _Human_ cultural awareness to her daughter as she had.

 

When the music changed, Philippa smiled at the familiar intro to the next song. It was one of her favourites because of its romantic sentiment, and she had requested it be played because she had wanted to dance it with Michael; it never occurred to her that her love might not have learned something so basic as dancing, which most Humans simply took for granted. She also hadn’t expected the song to be played so early in the evening, but she was grateful for it, and made a mental note to thank Lieutenant Bryce for being so observant.

 

“Listen to the lyrics, dearest,” she directed Michael gently, as the smoky soprano of an old Earth singer began. “Hold me close, lay your head on my shoulder, and just sway with me.” Luckily, the heels on her stylish boots brought her up almost to even height with Michael, making it easy for her love to do as directed.

 

_When marimba rhythms start to play_

_Dance with me, make me sway_

_Like a lazy ocean hugs the shore_

_Hold me close, sway me more_

_Like a flower bending in the breeze_

_Bend with me, sway with ease_

_When we dance you have a way with me_

_Stay with me, sway with me_

 

Philippa could feel Michael relaxing more as the song progressed, her head nestled in the hollow of her shoulder; she no longer felt like a bird about to take flight. Now that Philippa thought about it, Michael actually had a good natural sense of rhythm, it just had never been cultivated; and that was an oversight she was perfectly happy to rectify.

 

_Other dancers may be on the floor_

_Dear, but my eyes will see only you_

_Only you have that magic technique_

_When we sway, I go weak_

 

Michael lifted her head and met her gaze; the look in her eyes indicated that she wanted to say something, but she was unsure. Philippa smiled encouragingly.

 

_I can hear the sounds of violins_

_Long before it begins_

_Make me thrill as only you know how_

_Sway me smooth, sway me now_

 

“I wish now that I’d allowed Amanda to teach me to dance, all those times she offered,” she confessed softly; her eyes flicked to the lively dancers around them—Chief Petty Officer Liam McDougall, dancing with Ellen Landry, executed a picture-perfect dip before continuing with their loose tango-inspired interpretation. “Then I could dance this with you properly.”

 

“Well, I’m rather glad she didn’t,” Philippa murmured, capturing her attention again. “You weren’t ready to learn then, love—but you are now, and I get to be your teacher,” she purred. “And I do so _love_ students who are ready and willing to learn to _dance_ with me.”

 

Michael’s pupils blew and Philippa chuckled as she slid her arm around Michael’s waist and pulled her closer; she swivelled her hips, brushing them lightly against her love in time to the music.

 

“Did you know that all important Betazoid ceremonies are invariably performed in the nude?” she said and Michael looked at her in adorable confusion at the apparent _non-sequitur_. “Like weddings, and even funerary memorials. And did you know that on Betazed, many dances are considered _ceremonies_ , in and of themselves?”

 

Michael gave a desperate little whimper. “But this is not a Betazoid dance,” she husked, desire plain in her eyes.

 

“Perhaps not, but I am perfectly willing to _adjust_ my instructional methods to take advantage of new … _techniques_ ,” Philippa replied, pulling Michael flush against her; a soft moan reverberated in the hollow of her ear. “After all, it would be most advantageous to see that _all_ muscles and joints are moving in the correct way, and be able to _correct_ any missteps, would it not?”

 

“Then we should go now,” Michael said, with a definite note of unfamiliar desperation.

 

“But, my darling, we’re supposed to stay for at least an hour,” Philippa said with studied innocence, revelling the chance to tease her lover.

 

A cute pout graced Michael’s full lips; Philippa threw her head back and laughed.

 

“I know that Commander Landry has extended my curfew to 0100 hours for tonight,” Michael said quietly. “But it’s almost 2200 hours now, and I don’t want to waste time I could be spending with you, Philippa.”

 

Philippa sobered at that declaration. “Don’t worry so much, love, we have _all_ night.” The song changed and she pecked Michael’s lips as confusion returned. “Remember when I said I was extremely good at _splitting hairs_ , both with literal swords and metaphorical ones?” Michael nodded, obviously still confused and unable to see where she was going with the subject. “On the advice of Commander Landry, I took a closer look at the language of the rules pertaining to you but considering them in context of how they pertain to _me_. While _you_ may have a curfew, and by Starfleet’s regulations regarding your conscription onto _Discovery’s_ crew, you are required to be secured and logged into your quarters each evening, _I do not_ have a curfew, _I do not_ have to be secured and logged, and there are certainly _no_ _regulations_ governing where _I may sleep_ , other than Starfleet’s fraternisation rules—which we’ve already established _do not_ _apply_ to us, due to your status.”

 

Michael stood stock still, trembling in her arms, eyes brimming with tears now. “There isn’t even anything in the terms of your conscription prohibiting you from entertaining someone overnight, my love,” she chuckled as a tremulous smile quivered on Michael’s lips. “I went over it all thoroughly and got a second opinion from an old family friend; he fully concurred with my and Landry’s interpretation. He also looked the documents over and was extremely surprised at Starfleet’s sloppiness with all the deficiencies and legal loopholes they failed to close. According to my dear Old Coggie, we should just keep doing what we currently are—informing Commander Landry of our location after hours—and forward any objections to him if someone takes issue with it. And if anyone in the Admiralty wants to _push_ the issue, he’ll gladly _spank_ them for us.”

 

#

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song quoted is "Sway", the version performed by Anita Kelsey and lip synched by Jennifer Connelly in the movie Dark City.
> 
>  


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My first big dance number - please be kind! LOL!!!

Michael nearly tackled her with the ferocity of her kiss, which ignited that delightful fire deep in Philippa’s belly. She deepened the kiss—tongues battling for dominance in an instinctive dance that Michael performed beautifully despite her relative inexperience. Only the loud clearing of someone’s throat, brought Philippa back to her surroundings and she reluctantly broke the kiss.

 

She felt her face heat up as Ellen Landry gazed at them meaningfully, amusement twitching on her lips.

 

“Hello commander, enjoying the party?” Philippa said as nonchalantly as she could.

 

“Very much so, captain; I see that you’re enjoying it yourself.” There was just a hint of smugness in her voice.

 

“Immensely!” Philippa replied and recognised that the music had changed yet again—this time, to an Orion snake dance. Around them, dancers were sinuously, sensuously intertwining limbs and torsos with a partner … or two … or three, or more—she watched Joann Owosekun pull Cadet Tilly and Ensign Garcia in to dance with her, Detmer and Rhys—in what Katrina had fondly nicknamed _‘orgy dancing’_. Like Philippa, the good Vice Admiral Cornwell had always loved the sensual, and overtly sexual, freedom of it.

 

“Captain, may we have this dance,” the quartermaster, Liam McDougall asked with a roguish smile, and it was now Landry’s turn to sport a rather _bashful_ expression.

 

Philippa was tempted, but she didn’t want to leave Michael out. She met her lover’s gaze; Michael’s smile widened.

 

“Please,” she said, “I’d love to see you dance it—” She leaned closer and whispered in Philippa’s ear, “I think it may be the second dance I’d like you to teach in the Betazoid style.”

 

The flame kindling in Philippa’s belly became a wildfire; she gently caught Michael’s face between her palms and gave her a crushing kiss. “We leave after this,” she whispered back, before moving towards Landry and McDougall, arms outstretched.

 

“Lead on, my friends,” she said as they each took one of her hands and pulled her to them.

 

_Philippa immediately snakes one arm about Ellen Landry’s waist, while her other hand winds securely around Liam McDougall’s wrist, anchoring herself as she let her body fall backward on the downbeat, dragging Ellen across her. Liam flashes Philippa a grin and catches the surprised Ellen, then leaning back, pulls her body to him as Philippa rights herself, now letting his hand go and spinning behind Ellen so that they are dancing back to back._

 

 _As she holds Michael’s smouldering gaze across the dance floor, Philippa’s ass and upper torso skims along her security chief’s. Then there are hands on her hips, and Ellen turns her so they’re again face to face, while Liam moves behind her. She trusts him to catch her body as Ellen drives her backward, their hips swiveling to the trancelike fluidity of the Orion_ ha’bael _, musical orbs that remind her a little of the_ kulintang _music of her native Malaysia, but this is no formal, polite concert or performance. She brings her right leg up to Ellen’s shoulder as Liam catches them, then lowers it to wrap around the other woman’s waist in an almost unbearably intimate way as Ellen writhes against her. Once he has expertly rebalanced her and Ellen again in a more upright position, she feels Liam undulating behind her, as Ellen does the same in front._

 

 _Over Ellen’s shoulder, she gets another glimpse of Michael’s beautiful,_ astonished _face, before she’s blocked by Joann Owosekun and Patrick Rhys, who now flank Ellen, as Philippa slides her leg back down to the floor. Joann snakes her torso between them, driving Ellen back into Patrick’s embrace and undulates into her. Philippa turns in to dance with a puckish-looking Liam, whose hips swivel into hers, pulling her into his rhythm. Sylvia Tilly is dancing back to back with him, sandwiched between him and Garcia. Beyond them, Saru gracefully dips Keyla Detmer, who has M’Kiliss’ prehensile tail wrapped around her slim waist, as the large Caitian’s torso snakes over Hugh Culber’s back, while Paul Stamets dances in the secure circle of Hugh’s arms, one leg thrown about his love’s hip._

_Then there’s another hand at her waist. Liam grins as he anchors her again and she bends backward towards a new partner; her spine is no longer as flexible as in her youth, but she makes a good show of it as her free hand is caught and brought up taut by one strong green-skinned arm. Philippa looks up into the beautiful smiling face of one of the few Federation citizens of Orion origin, Dr. Nerial Azari-Tierith, a civilian geneticist studying fungi, from widely distant planets, that all seem to be related to_ Prototaxites stellaviatori _, and is part of the team trying to understand its spread throughout known space and the mycelial plane._

 

_Nerial pulls Philippa upright, bodies flush to each other—as Liam releases her—and then spins her out from the writhing formation of dancers, before stalking towards her, torso whipping with snake-like sinuosity first to the left and then to the right. Philippa takes up the challenge and moves towards her, mirroring her—moving right when she moves left, then snaking left when she moves right—until they are torso to torso, their breasts a hair’s breadth from touching as they dance and undulate with each other, but holding back from physically touching; she is extraordinarily graceful to dance with, and quite sublime to simply watch._

_They circle each other five times, going around and around in a heady, almost dizzying, tempo of mirror dancing, before Nerial moves around her so that they’re writhing back to back; still, without touching, Philippa feels her sinuous movements in the air between them and continues to mirror her dancing in time to the music pulsing through her. She finds herself face to face with Michael once again and realises her lover has been following her progress around the dance floor; her arms snake out to beckon her love to her, and to her surprise, she comes._

_Michael steps hesitantly into her space, her torso moving stiffly, shyly mirroring Philippa’s movements. Philippa grins at her, placing her left hand on the side of her love’s upper torso, near her breast, and her right on Michael’s hip. Nerial dances in behind Michael, hands up with a silent query for permission on her face, which Philippa answers with a nod and a smile. There is a gasp of surprise from Michael as Nerial’s hands insinuate themselves to mirror Philippa’s holds on her body, a moment before Philippa pushes her torso and hip in opposite directions; and after a beat, Nerial’s hands pushes her body into the counterpoint movement._

_Michael’s arms flail in confusion before coming to rest lightly on Philippa’s shoulders; Philippa’s and Nerial’s hands now begin to alternately push and pull Michael’s hips to swivel as much as possible with minimum involvement of her legs, while maintaining the snake-like sway of her upper body._

_However, after a few minutes, Philippa instinctively knows that this arrangement is becoming increasingly uncomfortable for Michael, although she gamely endures it. She meets the Orion’s gaze over her love’s shoulder and silently mouths_ “Thank you” _, nodding her request to leave. Nerial grins knowingly and gives them a courtly bow as she backs away. Michael stumbles at the loss of the second pair of hands, but quickly settles back into the simple rhythm they’d helped to set. She has a wonderful look of concentration on her face that is pure_ Michael _, which Philippa loves beyond all reason._

 

_When the song ends a few minutes later, and Michael slumps against her breathing heavily, Philippa holds her securely, lovingly._

 

“Are you okay,” she asked gently.

 

Michael chuckled and wrapped her arms more tightly around her. “Wonderful,” she breathed, chest heaving against Philippa’s.

 

“I’m sorry I didn’t ask your permission before allowing Nerial to join our dance,” Philippa apologised softly. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

 

Michael pecked her lips, before whispering in her ear, “There’s no need for apology, Philippa; she was your partner when I joined your dance, so I gave my tacit permission for her to touch me the moment I joined you. She didn’t make me uncomfortable—at least not in the way you think—I was becoming rather _aroused_ , and Orions are an exquisitely _pheromone_ -based species.”

 

 _“Oh!”_ Philippa breathed, and her own arousal made itself known with a vengeance again.

 

“So, can we go now?” she asked impishly.

 

 _“God, yes!”_ Philippa moaned, but before she could gather her wits to move, M’Kiliss approached carrying a tray with three champagne flutes.

 

As he handed one each to her and Michael and held the last up himself, she realised that the music has died and that Saru was standing in the middle of the dance floor, just to the right of them, holding up a flute of his own.

 

“To Captain Philippa Georgiou!” her Kelpien first officer saluted, holding his glass up high as the crew roared back with one voice, _“To Captain Philippa Georgiou!”_ Philippa and Michael returned their salute and sipped the champagne, before Saru continued, “And to Science Specialist Michael Burnham; thank you!”

 

“To Science Specialist Michael Burnham!” the crowd happily roared back and Tilly began a rousing cheer of _“Michael! Michael! Michael!”_ that they all join enthusiastically.

 

As the pandemonium died down, Philippa pecked Michael’s warm cheek and raised her glass again. “To the best crew a captain could ever ask for!” she shouted to their cheers, “And to the best ship in the fleet! To the _USS Discovery!_ ”

 

 _“Discovery! Discovery! Discovery!”_ they chanted back, giving way to cheers and whoops and hollers as the pounding music started up again and dancers swarmed onto the floor.

 

Her Caitian steward slipped something into her hand as he took her champagne flute; it was an data chip, which she slipped into her pocket for later.

 

“Good night, my captain,” he whispered in her ear. Retrieving Michael’s glass, he murmured, “My Lady,” with a bow and moved back toward Saru.

 

#


	15. Chapter 15

In all her years, Philippa Georgiou had never felt such a combination of anticipation, arousal and sheer joy. Wrapped in Michael’s arms, exploring their love and passion, she felt warm and safe.

 

_In a turbolift._

 

For the first time, during her more than thirty years in Starfleet, she was making out with someone in a starship _turbolift_ , kissing and caressing like a lovesick teenager.

 

 _Correction: For all my wild antics, I hadn’t done this …_ felt _like this … even when I had_ been _a hormonal teenaged cadet! Now I’m clinging to Michael like my life depends on maintaining physical contact with her._

 

It took her a few moments to realise that the doors had opened and they needed to exit before someone called the lift car. Reluctantly parting from Michael, she dragged her into the corridor, only to have Michael quickly turn and back her into the wall, crashing their lips together, tongues tangling in another heated kiss, feeding the bonfire already raging in Philippa’s core and promising so much _more_ for the evening.

 

The corridor was deserted, but Philippa retained enough awareness to know it might not stay that way. “Let’s get back to your quarters, my dear,” she whispered, gasping for breath as her love again tried to capture her lips.

 

Michael moaned with impatient need, but she pulled away. She clung to Philippa as they began to walk again, stealing kisses every few metres and noticeably slowing their progress. Philippa chuckled softly at this new, wild and impatient facet of her usually cool-headed and logical-minded lover.

 

“What is it?”

 

She brought her laughter under control; it seemed that only Michael’s towering curiosity could overcome her raging libido, once ignited. There was fire in her eyes and she was _glorious_.

 

“You’re very impatient tonight, my love,” she teased, glad of a moment to catch her breath.

 

“After that snake dance you … _performed_ ,” Michael growled, “You’re lucky I didn’t take you then and there on the floor when you invited me to dance!” Philippa burst into delighted laughter again; a warm feeling spread throughout her being—pleasure at being able to provoke such passion in her usually Vulcan-like lover.

 

She brought one of Michael’s hands to her lips, savouring the taste and scent of her; Vulcan spiced tea and vanilla, with a hint of coconut now; but beneath it all was an indefinable scent that she knew was pure _Michael_.

 

“Not much further now, my darling,” she murmured as the doors to Michael’s quarters came into view.

 

Once inside and the doors closed, Michael wasted no time in groping and kissing her again, boldly cupping her ass to bring her more fully into contact with the leg that had worked itself between her own. Not to be outdone, Philippa insinuated her hands beneath the hem of Michael’s dress to find … _bare silken skin_.

 

_Dear sweet gods!_

 

All thought processes screeched to a halt as she met Michael’s adorably bashful expression, open-mouthed in shock … her hands still roaming her lover’s ass of their own volition. Looking down, she saw the crimson lace tops of Michael’s stockings peeking from beneath the bunched-up hem of her dress—not tights as she had assumed—and belatedly she realised her fingers had encountered a slip of lace high on the outer curve of those firm, perfect globes.

 

 _A thong. Michael is wearing nothing but a thong and stockings, because with that backless dress, she’s certainly_ not _wearing a bra._

 

Philippa shot straight past _aroused_ to _desperate!_ “If I’d known this earlier, we would _not_ have left this room!” she growled.

 

Michael threw her head back and laughed. “And I wouldn’t have had the chance to see you dance, my love, or to dance with you,” she replied, pecking Philippa’s lips, “and I cannot _wait_ to begin my lessons in the Betazoid style.”

 

Philippa moaned loudly and dropped her head on Michael’s shoulder; she wanted nothing more than to begin those lessons, but first things first. Removing her hands from beneath Michael’s dress, she met her gaze.

 

“Computer, please connect me to Commander Landry’s comm unit.”

 

Michael smiled sadly; Philippa felt her love’s fingers lace between hers and hold on tightly.

 

After a few moments, the security chief answered, the sounds of the party a muffled din in the background.

 

“Landry here; how may I help you this evening, captain?”

 

“Commander, I will be spending the remainder of the evening in Science Specialist Burnham’s quarters.”

 

“Understood, captain; it has been noted and logged.” The younger woman’s voice continued with a note of gentle teasing, “Enjoy the rest of your evening, captain.”

 

“Thank you, commander. Georgiou out.”

 

“Computer,” Michael called softly. “Please record and transmit for security log—Starfleet Prisoner 001195-alpha-3847 Michael Burnham is secured in quarters for the night. Burnham out.”

 

“Acknowledged; Starfleet Prisoner 001195-alpha-3847 Michael Burnham is secured in quarters. Status transmitted to security log.”

 

The light panel beside the door flashed red and held steady.

 

Philippa leaned in and kissed her; this time there was no frantic need, just the sweet taste of love and the banked fire in her belly.

 

Michael broke the kiss first and smiled against Philippa’s mouth. “Can we start my lessons now?” she asked and Philippa couldn’t help but laugh at her eager expression.

 

“Oh yes!”

 

Permission given, Michael quickly caught the hem of her dress and began to pull it up; Philippa stopped her quivering fingers.

 

“Allow me, my dear,” she husked and gently, but efficiently, pulled it up over Michael’s head and from her arms.

 

The thong was sheer black, trimmed with red lace that matched the lace at the top of stocking-clad legs that seemed to go on forever; the low, black kitten heels, which she hadn’t noticed before, added a perfect finishing touch.

 

“Sublime,” Philippa said worshipfully, forcing her eyes up to meet Michael’s gaze— _a Herculean feat considering those perfect breasts_. “Thank you.”

 

“Thank Tilly, actually,” Michael chuckled, gathering the dress from her and heading towards her bedroom; for the second time in less than five minutes, Philippa’s thought processes ground to a crashing halt.

 

 _“Tilly?”_ The strangled growling of her friend’s name stopped Michael in her tracks and she turned, a look of confusion on her lovely face.

 

#

 


	16. Chapter 16

The utter innocence in Michael’s confused expression made Philippa stop and close her eyes, bringing her irrational jealousy under control.

 

“Please _don’t_ tell me that Cadet Tilly has seen you like this,” she whispered.

 

“Of course not!” She felt Michael’s arms wind around her again. “Are you feeling jealous, Philippa?” she teased.

 

“Insanely jealous, my love,” she murmured, eyes still closed—this time in mortification—as she laid her head on Michael’s shoulder for a moment. “I’m sorry; forgive me,” she said, looking once more into her love’s soft, brown eyes.

 

“Come, let’s sit down.” Michael manoeuvred her to sit, then carefully draping her dress over the arm of the small couch, sat down next to her. “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding. I only meant that Tilly inspired me to dress this way … for you.” Philippa immediately melted at the idea and at her adorably shy look. “But she also triggered a very old, and very _precious_ , memory that put what she—and Detmer as well—were saying into context for me.”

 

“What do you mean?” As she turned into Michael, her lover pulled her legs up across her stocking-clad lap, then proceeded to remove Philippa’s boots and massage her feet; it felt heavenly.

 

“Like you, I had initially intended to wear my uniform tonight, but a couple of days ago, when Commander Landry reinstated my replicator privileges, Sylvia and Keyla were trying to convince me to replicate something special. Of course, I pointed out that my uniform was appropriate attire for any social gathering, and Keyla agreed, but explained that even when wearing something as prosaic as a uniform to a social event, you should wear something nice underneath—something you know your partner would like, if you’re going to be together later. Joann and Patrick know how she likes them to look in private, and they oblige her; and she, in turn, likes to surprise and delight them with certain temporary body art from time to time on special occasions—works of art only _they_ will ever see,” she murmured, peering shyly at Philippa from beneath lowered lashes.

 

“Ah, I see,” Philippa replied, heart full with gladness that her love was making such connections … finding such good friends among her crewmates, from whom she could receive such guidance as this.

 

“Anyway, after Keyla left, Sylvia and I were going through the replicator menu, and she explained that even when she was not in a relationship, she liked to dress up for _herself_ , because she liked to look pretty or sexy, depending on her mood, and if she attracted someone, well that was a bonus. But when she had a partner, she found that she mostly dressed for them—oh, she still wore what _she_ was comfortable with, but with their aesthetics in mind … like her old boyfriend at the Academy, who liked to see her in shades of deep green because he loved the way it contrasted so beautifully with her hair colour and skin tone. So, she’d often wear a green dress or blouse for him. She told me to think about the way you made me feel, then try to look at the selections with that in mind, for something that I’d feel comfortable wearing. You made me feel beautiful, sexy, brave and daring—like I can do _anything_ —so when I saw _that_ dress, I knew it was the one I wanted to wear for _you_.”

 

Philippa pulled her love down into a passionate kiss, pouring every ounce of feeling she could into it; she rearranged her legs so that Michael could curl up more comfortably against her in the tight confines of the couch.

 

Philippa laughed as a warm feeling of contentment settled over her; at Michael’s puzzled look, she said, “At the rate I’m promoting our wise Miss Tilly in my head, she’ll be a captain by the end of the week!” Michael shook with answering laughter.

 

Another thought struck and she sobered with concern. “What did you mean when you said that she triggered a memory? I hope it wasn’t anything traumatic.”

 

“Only traumatic in as far as it was, I realise now, the first time I had seen my parents act like sexual creatures, but I didn’t understand what I’d seen that night until now, over twenty-five years later,” she chuckled, but there was a definite undercurrent of sadness in her voice.

 

_“Oh Michael.”_

 

“No, it was a wonderful memory,” she hastened to assure Philippa, lifting her head to look directly in her eyes again. “One I’m _glad_ to remember. After we’d replicated the dress, tights and shoes, as she was leaving, Sylvia told me not to forget to get some pretty underwear as a present for you to unwrap, _‘from that beautiful gift wrap of a dress’_ , after the party. And it was _then_ that I remembered my parents.”

 

Her face took on that look of intense concentration and her voice was soft and loving. “They’d also been getting ready to go to a party or event—I must have been about five, so we were still on Earth, I think. I know that I’d woken up after my Mama had put me to bed—I heard their voices … laughter … and went to their bedroom. My Daddy was already dressed and looked so handsome in his dark grey suit. There was soft music playing—he was standing behind Mama, his arms around her waist and kissing her shoulder. She wasn’t finished dressing—she was wearing sheer, shimmery stockings with little ruffles of silver and metallic pink lace the top of her thighs, adorned with tiny silver and pink bows, panties and a corset, both with the same small ruffles of lace and bows. She looked so tall and beautiful and _powerful_ —although I know now that she was rather tiny, not even as tall as you are. She wiggled out of Daddy’s grasp and admonished him that she had to finish getting dressed; he moaned and complained about all the boring speeches they would have to sit through. She teased him—I remember her calling him a _“poor boy”_ and telling him to think about the gift he’d get to open later if he was a _“good boy”_ for her that night.”

 

Michael laughed softly. “And then he was moaning again—he called her a _“wicked woman”_ and helped her into her dress; it was a strapless silver sheath, with a slit up the leg to mid-thigh. But that’s when I piped up and demanded that if Daddy was getting a present, then it was only fair that I should get one too!”

 

Philippa burst out laughing at the thought of her Michael as a precocious five-year-old. “Even then, you were one for the logical argument!”

 

“Of course,” she said primly, then succumbed to laughter again. “Anyway, he picked me up and promised that if I was a good girl for the babysitter, and went back to sleep right away, I’d get a present in the morning; Mama told him he was spoiling me. It’s funny … I remember that they kissed me and put me back to bed, but I don’t remember if I ever got that gift. How could I have forgotten such a beautiful memory, Philippa?” she asked softly, her voice streaked with tears and cracked by sorrow now; Philippa tightened her arms around her and wept with her, patiently waiting for her love to say everything she _needed_ to say.

 

“How could I have forgotten _everything_ about them?” she cried, shuddering with the force of her tears. “I don’t really remember my childhood before Vulcan. I mean, Amanda always made sure that I had pictures of them, and what little could be recovered from our home on Doctari Alpha, but I don’t _really_ remember anything but the blood and screams of that day … My father fighting with his bare hands to the _death_ against three Klingons, after they broke his knife, to defend my mother, while they _laughed at him!_ My mother’s screams as they _hurt_  her— _before killing her!_ How could I remember only the horror of that day for over _twenty years_ , Philippa, but none of the memories of all those bright days that preceded it? _What’s wrong with me?_ ”

 

Philippa kissed her wet cheek. “You were a child, Michael,” she replied hoarsely. “A brave, wonderful child who had witnessed something that was _beyond_ _horrific_ and—in your child-mind—you could not reconcile it to the life you knew. But you instinctively knew that you needed to protect those beautiful memories and those bright, bright days for when you were _ready_ to remember them and _could_ reconcile them for yourself. It was a natural reaction and there is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with you, Michael,” she assured her, pulling her as close as possible. “It was simply how your mind chose to deal with the trauma, so that you could _survive_ it—and survive it you did, dearest; _you survived!_ ”

 

She tenderly stroked Michael’s hair and back until she stopped crying and her breathing became regular again. “When we get back to Earth, I will definitely have to speak to Katrina about counselling services for the crew, my love,” she said softly.

 

Michael’s face quickly shuttered with a wary look and she tried to move away. “Hey, none of that now,” Philippa said, pulling her close again. “When I say the crew, I mean the crew, love—including you and including _me_. Look at me, dearest,” she said softly; she waited patiently for her lover to meet her gaze again. “Katrina already knows that I need help—I’ve always had anger issues, Michael, and my Starfleet service has always been my way of mitigating that in one way or another. Kat knows that, because she’s generally been the one to help me when I went off the rails. The night I found out about the surveillance in these quarters, I was so … _furious_ that I seriously considered putting Landry out an airlock, and I _assaulted_ her when I confronted her about it.”

 

Michael gaped at her in shock at her confession.

 

“Now, she understands why it happened and has forgiven me for the assault, but it has been a _very_ long time since my mind has turned to cold-blooded _murder_ as the _first_ solution to a problem—that is when I knew I needed to contact Katrina right away. She and my old mentor, Admiral Louis-Georges Picard, helped me to step back from the edge of that precipice, and to get at the reason for Landry’s actions. I can’t go into it, because there is an on-going investigation by Fleet Intelligence, but it turns out that she was a dupe … almost as badly victimised by the person behind this as you were. They should have answers for us by the time we get back to Earth after this mission.”

 

Michael nodded and kissed her lips, before settling against her again. “She warned me, you know,” she said softly, “Landry—during those early days when I first came on board.”

 

“What do you mean?” Philippa asked in concern.

 

“It’s how I knew that there were surveillance devices inside my quarters—Commander Landry said a couple of things that put me on my guard … made me realise I was being watched even when I was in my quarters.”

 

“Like what?” Philippa insisted, trying desperately to hold on to her anger.

 

“The first morning after I was conscripted to serve on _Discovery_ , I had a meeting in her office,” she replied. “We went over the rules and she told me to be careful and to stay out of trouble, or I’d go back to prison, and _‘no amount of crying for the captain’_ would do me any good. I’d had a nightmare and woken up at 0400 that very morning screaming for you,” she said hoarsely. “She looked quite unhappy and I thought it was because of my presence on the ship, but I also got the feeling from her that it was an important warning, beyond just the consequences of breaking the rules. The next day, she spoke to me about Tilly’s presence in my quarters and reminded me about curfew—I was almost late getting back to my quarters. A few days later, she commented on the care hamper and noted the package of candied ginger she thought Amanda had sent—but it was _you_ who slipped it in, because only _you’ve_ ever given me candied ginger, since _you_ were the one who got me addicted to it,” she chuckled softly. “You’d brought the hamper to me less than an hour before, so she couldn’t possibly have seen the contents. I understood then that—for some reason—she was telling me that she or someone else was watching me _inside_ my quarters. A few days after that she confiscated it and its contents.”

 

“I see,” Philippa said thoughtfully. “She didn’t say anything about that—only that she’d been ordered to confiscate the hamper as a test … to see if you could be provoked to say anything in anger against Starfleet.”

 

“Ah,” she said quietly and was silent for a few moments. “They needn’t have worried; I wasn’t about to do _anything_ to risk being sent away from you.”

 

“That should _never_ have been a weapon to force you to live under such conditions—to live with such … _violation_ day after day,” Philippa replied angrily. “Louis-Georges will try to make sure that none of those recordings have been made public, but I’m sorry that in my selfishness to have you here with me, I gave them this opportunity.”

 

“Not selfishness,” she declared, tightening her arms around Philippa. Another beat, and then, “Sorry, this was not the way I’d envisioned this evening ending. I did so want to learn to dance with you.”

 

“None of this, my love,” Philippa admonished. “ _This_ was the way _I_ had envisioned this evening ending—with you in my arms … with me holding you through the night and waking to your beautiful face in the morning. You need time to process, Michael, and our dancing lessons— _of all kinds_ ,” she purred into Michael’s ear, “will happen when we are ready; have no fear of that. There’s no rush.”

 

“We go into battle tomorrow.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“You cannot promise that we will both survive.”

 

“No, I cannot. But I do believe, deep in my soul, that we will be afforded our dances. Perhaps it is simply folly—an old woman’s fancy—”

 

 _“You’re not old!”_ Michael growled and Philippa laughed. “I’ll hold you to that, Philippa; I won’t be cheated of my dances with you.” She stretched tiredly as she sat up and held her hand out. “Let’s go to bed; I’m suddenly exhausted and I want to go to sleep holding you—but somewhere more comfortable than this couch.”

 

Philippa allowed herself to be helped off the couch. “You’ll get no argument from me,” she replied smiling. “But first, there is a gift I had intended for you to unwrap tonight.”

 

 _“Gift?”_ she asked, suddenly more alert. “What gift? Where is it?”

 

Philippa laughed again. “You can be so _adorably_ dense at the oddest times, love,” she said shaking her head. “Here, let me start you off,” she said, slipping the suit’s jacket off and draping it over the couch arm, before guiding Michael’s fingers to the buttons on the waistcoat.

 

She watched sudden comprehension dawn on Michael’s face; nimble fingers attacked the buttons, making short work of them and tugging the waistcoat off, negligently tossing it onto the couch as her love eagerly concentrated on the shirt. Michael’s breath caught as she saw the beautiful ivory silk corset, embroidered with small clusters of flowers in subtle shades of silver and blue.

 

At her love’s moan of delight, Philippa mentally thanked M’Kiliss, who had included it in her bag of _unmentionables_ , along with another, more prosaic, choice of a standard Starfleet underwear set; all part of his not so subtle hint as to what he thought his captain should wear for her _Lady_.

 

_A truly scary being, my yeoman._

 

The shirt joined the rest of their clothing on the couch, as Michael moved impatiently to her pants. “Too many buttons,” she grumbled, unfastening and hastily pushing them down Philippa’s thighs, nearly causing her to overbalance. Philippa laughed and sat down again to pull the pants off, but Michael would have none of it, going down on her knees and batting her hands away.

 

 _“My gift!”_ she growled, pulling the pants off the rest of the way, tossing them over her shoulder onto the coffee table.

 

Michael studied Philippa intensely for long minutes, as if memorising every millimetre of her body. She then shuffled forward on her knees to position herself between Philippa’s silk-clad thighs, and then laying her head against Philippa’s breast above her heart, wrapped her arms around her before sighing contentedly.

 

Philippa caressed her love’s hair and back soothingly for a few moments in silence. “Come, let’s go to bed, dearest.”

 

Michael nodded and allowed Philippa to help her up. They made their way into the bedroom, foregoing their nightly ablutions in favour of holding each other. Michael lay on her back, pulling Philippa down to lay on top of her.

 

“Just for a few minutes,” she whispered looking deeply into Philippa’s eyes and wrapping her arms around her waist. “I find that I feel safest when you’re on top of me—your weight reassures me that you are real and not a dream.”

 

“Of course, dearest,” Philippa responded, gently caressing her face. “Go to sleep now; I promise I will be here in the morning.”

 

#

 


	17. Chapter 17

Michael had fallen asleep quite quickly, but Philippa had lain awake for a long time simply watching her sleep and listening to her breathe. Once she was sure that her love was deep enough in sleep, she’d extricated herself, from Michael’s tight grip, to use the bathroom and relieve her decidedly _unsexy_ bladder.

 

Releasing the catches on her corset—it wasn’t uncomfortable, but her scar ached, so she was glad to be out of it—Philippa breathed deeply and smiled at her reflection in the mirror as she washed her hands. She looked tired and disheveled, but she was surprised to see beauty there too. She’d never been a vain woman—well, not any vainer than most—but it had been a long time since she’d considered her own beauty, since well before that last year on _Shenzhou_ … over six months before Michael’s promotion to first officer.

 

She’d always been aware that she was beautiful by most standards of Human beauty, and by many standards of beauty held by other humanoid species. But it had been during a couple of days of Starfleet-mandated shore leave on Risa for the crew, after a difficult mission, that she’d recognised _how_ her protégée was looking at her—and even then, she’d known that Michael hadn’t sufficient experience or context to recognise what she was feeling.

 

At first, it had left her feeling incredibly flattered, igniting an answering fire deep within, but with that awareness came an incredible guilt for feeling that way about the younger woman … her friend … her _subordinate_ … and as she’d known even then, her future first officer. So, she had denied it, ruthlessly tamped that fire down and written it off as a sudden spurt of lust in the admittedly _“lusty”_ atmosphere of that notorious pleasure planet.

 

 _“I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun,”_ she quoted softly from a favourite classic novel.

 

Philippa recognised now that she’d been in love with Michael for a very long time, even before that bright day on beach, trying to teach her Vulcan-raised friend to swim. That was just when she’d first noticed it—or rather, _allowed_ herself to notice and acknowledge it—in a moment of weakness, with Michael _wet_ and shivering in her arms, she’d allowed herself to dream of what could be. Then, realising what she was doing, she’d _run_ as quickly as she could back to the safety of her ship, without raising Michael’s suspicions. Convenient paperwork and crafting a presentation in answer to a last-minute request to speak at a conference on diplomacy, had given her three days without Michael … three days in which to regain her equilibrium without Michael being any the wiser …

 

 _Three days in which to bury my heart. The conference soon after that leave had given me another week away from the ship … away from her to heal that self-inflicted wound_.

 

She’d taken stock then, asking herself what a bright, beautiful young woman could see in a middle-aged woman like her, and looking at her image in the mirror, she’d decided that there was something to be said for sheer physical beauty when it came to feelings of attraction. And it was then that she’d relegated Michael’s feelings to nothing more than a young person’s _crush_ for someone they admired … someone they considered unattainable.

 

 _Perfectly natural feelings that would eventually fade_.

 

Philippa chuckled softly at the irony of it as she returned to the bedroom and lay her corset over the back of a chair. A low, guttural sound caught her attention; a sound of pure despair.

 

_“No! No!”_

Then, _“Philippa!”_

 

Tears stained Michael’s cheeks as she scrabbled at the bedsheets, breath coming in harsh, heartbreaking _sobs_ , as she blindly searched for something … _someone_. Philippa’s heart tightened in her chest; she’d forgotten about Michael’s nightmares, and with all that had happened that evening, she should have _expected_ this.

 

Philippa quickly climbed back into bed, arranging herself so that she could gather Michael into her arms; her love gave another low cry and quickly clung onto Philippa, all arms and legs curled around her.

 

“Oh, my darling,” she whispered as she kissed Michael’s brow. “I’m sorry I took so long,” she whispered an apology, although she knew that Michael was still asleep. Her love gave a deep sigh and held her tighter. Philippa squirmed until she was more comfortably situated on her side facing her lover; she could have easily felt trapped, but only felt loved.

 

Gently stroking the soft twists of hair, she remained awake listening again to Michael for any further signs of distress. She thought again on all that time she’d wasted denying her feelings, the dull ache of her scar making her incredibly aware that she might _never_ have had a chance to experience this extraordinary love with Michael. And then she thanked every deity she could think of that she’d received this second chance and that she’d had the _strength_ to take it.

 

She kissed Michael’s forehead and closed her eyes at last, whispering, “We will have our dances, my love; I promise you, we _will_ have our dances.”

 

#

 

When Philippa woke, it was to the most glorious tightening in her core. She floated on a cloud of pure sensation—incredibly _present_ , but without the throbbing urgency of an impending orgasm. Opening her eyes and pushing herself up on her elbows, she looked down her body to find she wore only her stockings now. Michael lay between her open legs studying her sex with the same kind of concentration and fascination Philippa had last seen on her face when taking quantum field readings of a rare and magnificent phenomenon known as a stellar core fountain, which had flared in a variable star about fifteen months ago in the little-explored Paulson Nebula; _Shenzhou_ had been on a supply run from Regulus to Starbase 23, a strategic base near the Romulan border.

 

Philippa’s face heated at the thought of such concentration being lavished on her most private part. She was by no means shy, and had had her share of lovers, but she’d never had anyone literally _study_ her before.

 

 _“Michael?”_ she whispered; her love _hummed_ in response. “What are you doing?”

 

Michael reached out to touch her—at least that was what Philippa had thought, but she could not help the involuntary shriek she gave at the contact—it was as if her lover had connected a live wire directly to her. Her body arched, vibrating with pleasure that sang on every nerve for a blissful eternity.

 

She collapsed as the sensation passed and she could breathe once more; levering herself up again, she gaped at Michael. _“What—what in_ God’s _name was that?”_

 

Her lover looked up at her and grinned. “That was you, Philippa.” Still maintaining eye contact, she lowered her lips to gently kiss Philippa’s still throbbing clit, nipping it gently between her lips. Although it should not have been so, it was incredibly soothing after that mind-blowing _jolt_ of an orgasm; Philippa gave a blissed-out sigh and shook her head in astonishment at her playful and impish lover.

 

“Michael, _please_ ,” she begged hoarsely.

 

Her love got up and moved out from between her legs, crawling up to lay beside her. Kissing her, Michael pulled Philippa close and held up her right hand; the black Soulstone glimmered in the bedroom’s _‘early morning’_ light, while the golden chain was looped around her slender wrist a few times.

 

“As I said,” she replied with a distinctly _puckish_ grin. “That was you, Philippa … giving yourself an orgasm.”

 

Philippa blinked, looking from the gem to Michael’s smiling face and back again a couple of times, completely _gobsmacked_ as pleasurable aftershocks shook her and she cast about for something to say. Finally, “You want to explain that?”

 

Michael giggled, sounding surprisingly like the naughty schoolgirl Philippa was quite sure she’d never been. “Well, it does radiate the psychic energy it has been impressed with,” she said teasingly. “And what is psychic energy but _bio-neural_ energy, and what is more exquisitely perfect to conduct bio- _neural_ energy than _neurons_?”

 

 _“What? How did you … What?”_ Philippa sputtered, unable to wrap her mind around what Michael was saying.

 

So, she stopped, and really looked hard at her lover; Michael was a woman who _questioned_ things … a consummate scientist. Of course, she would investigate _everything_ that interested her with the same scientific precision that she investigated the Tardigrade’s ability to navigate the mycelial plane, or superluminal particles in the flow-fields at the quantum intersection between space and subspace … even a love token.

 

“Do I even _want_ to know how you figured that out, love?” she quipped, sitting up and holding the jewel in one hand; as always, she felt the slight tingle of it— _of its energy_ —in her palm and fingers.

 

Michael’s face was suddenly vulnerable and very shy. “I’ve missed you since we started to prepare the ship,” she said softly, cupping Philippa’s cheek, as if she knew the feelings of guilt that immediately rose in her love’s chest. “I understand why, Philippa—you, more than anyone on board, have worked yourself to exhaustion to make sure that we are ready; you have _nothing_ to feel guilty about. Night before last, I simply couldn’t sleep, although I was more than tired enough. I couldn’t hold you, but I could hold a small piece of your love; so, I took the Soulstone out of its case and just lay here with it pressed against my heart.” She chuckled, eyes glinting mischief. “It made the nipple on my left breast erect and tingly—similar to the way my fingertips tingle when I touch it, but more intense. And so, I _experimented_.”

 

“Of course, you did,” Philippa laughed and pecked a kiss; this was Michael after all. “And what were your findings, my dear, _dear_ scientist?”

 

“Well, then it made my right nipple erect when brought into proximity, and it gave me a good jolt of pleasure when brought into contact. The same happened with my lips, and my tongue felt so swollen and heavy afterward, it was nearly impossible to speak,” she said playfully as the tip of that organ darted out to moisten her lips. “As those are on average, some of the more highly innervated places on the surface of the Human body, I wondered how it would affect the place that is _the_ most highly innervated.

 

“Did you know that the clitoris of the average Human woman is innervated with _eight to_ _ten thousand_ sensory nerve endings?” she asked, eying Philippa coyly. “Given its small size, it has _the_ most sensory nerve endings, per square micrometre of its surface than any other organ in the human body; when I brought the Soulstone close to it, more than simply tingling, I felt a rush of arousal, and bringing it into contact—”

 

“Was like being plugged into a warp reactor,” Philippa chuckled.

 

“Yes,” she giggled. “Although I may not have done much with it until now, Amanda did make sure to give me a _thorough_ education in Human sexuality and sexual health,” she said softly and Philippa caressed her cheek gently. “The clitoris is the only organ in our bodies that serves no other purpose but to give pleasure. No matter what this day brings, Philippa, I wanted you to start today with pleasure.”

 

Philippa kissed her hard, trying to convey all her love. “That you gave me, love,” she said when she could again speak. “ _That_ you _certainly_ did! But, my love, I would have also considered it a great pleasure just to wake up with you in my arms.”

 

“I know,” she replied, dropping another gentle kiss on Philippa’s lips.

 

“I also think that we should refrain from using the Soulstone in such a fashion too often,” Philippa continued regarding the jewel more closely now. “It was a truly _massive_ experience and a wonderful way to wake up, but I can see it easily becoming addictive if we’re not careful.”

 

Michael nodded. “I realised this as well,” she replied softly. “And I resolved not to use it like that again unless we were together, because even though it was wonderful orgasm, it left me feeling so _much_ lonelier than before; you weren’t here to share the experience with me, and I didn’t like that feeling at all.”

 

Philippa pulled her closer. “Oh love, you should have called me.”

 

“I didn’t want to be a bother; it was after 0130 hours—you needed your rest.”

 

“Perhaps,” she conceded, “but I would rather know these things, dearest. Even if I could not come to you, we could have spoken. I’ve never been good at relationships, Michael, and it has taken me many, _many_ years to realise that it is in part due to my lack of communication with my partners—not only about their needs and expectations, but also my own; I don’t _ever_ want to fall into that trap with you. If you need to talk to me personally, just call me; if I’m on the bridge or I am not alone, I will let you know and speak to you as soon as I can. But please know that it is not _weak_ or _clingy_ or _a bother_ or any of those other pejoratives that others may see as weakness. I am _yours_ , Michael, just as you are _mine_ ; we are each other’s _strength_. So, if you need to call on my strength, do so regardless of the need or the hour—understood?”

 

“Understood,” Michael replied with a smile that glowed in the morning light. “But you must also remember to call on my strength, no matter the need or the hour.”

 

Philippa kissed her, murmuring, “I will,” to seal her promise.

 

“Is that what happened with your marriage—a lack of communication?” Michael asked curiously.

 

She laughed and flopped back onto the bed. “You don’t know how to ask easy questions, do you love?” As Michael made to protest, she pulled her down onto her, so that they were face to face. “It’s all right, my love, you have a _right_ to ask about these things and to receive answers. However, I must preface my answer by saying that the reason for my relationship with Christos Georgiou remains classified.”

 

The surprised expression gracing Michael’s face made her look rather adorable and Philippa pecked her lips again.

 

“But there came a time when that reason was no longer an issue, and we had a choice whether to stay married or not. Christos is good man and a great friend, but he is … not the gender I preferred, and he understood from the start that ours was to be a marriage of circumstance and expediency; we were both professional enough and good enough actors to make an excellent show of it as needed. When we divorced, I kept my married name for a number of reasons, but mainly because it seemed to signify to people that Starfleet’s _Wild Child, Philippa Khan_ , had finally matured, and it was in my best interests to distance _Philippa Georgiou_ from all that, especially in those years spent climbing the ranks, yet still participating in classified work. Very few people know just how much the _Wild Child_ was deliberately created and crafted persona, a cover—”

 

“A cover for someone who was definitely not _wild_ nor a _child_ ,” Michael said softly. “Intelligence recruited you _very_ young, didn’t they? Even before you graduated from the Academy, I think.”

 

Philippa stared and then laughed. “I usually only say this to M’Kiliss; but you are a _scary being_ , my love. Please don’t ask about that; when this is over, I will ask Louis-Georges to brief you on all those things I want to share with you but cannot. Many details of my missions may need to remain classified, but I want as few secrets between us as possible and to share that aspect of my life with you—the woman I was, as well as the woman I later became,” she said, unable to keep the sadness, and perhaps shame, from her voice.

 

“I _know_ the woman you are now; and therefore, I _know_ the woman you were _then_ ,” Michael declared, holding her gaze with a look that told her it was useless to contradict. “They took a bright, young girl—one meant for dancing, perhaps—and turned her into a warrior of such skill and focus, she became a blade … a scalpel needed to cut away the cancers that can inevitably grow on an organism as large and complex as the Federation.”

 

Philippa gazed up at her love in wordless awe, tears brimming as Michael continued with a gentle smile.

 

“There can be no shame or dishonour in that, Philippa. In the few days since you revealed Disco to me, and that small facet of the woman you once were, I’ve thought very hard about this—and I realised there is _no_ dichotomy; _she is the woman you are now, and the woman I have always known_. Perhaps her attributes are a bit buried beneath _Captain Philippa Georgiou_ , but my logic and my _heart_ tell me that there is no need for you to feel _any_ dishonour in _Philippa Khan Xiu Ying_. Blades may become stained or darkened or chipped, but any _dishonour_ lies _not_ with the blade, but with those wielding it. And when I saw Philippa Khan Xiu Ying glimmering in your eyes that night, I realised I was not afraid or ashamed of her, I was _aroused and awed_ by her—by her _strength_ and even by her _darkness_.”

 

Michael’s smile was positively wolfish now as she pecked Philippa’s lips. “So, I will listen to Admiral Picard tell me what he can about the exploits of Philippa Khan Xiu Ying, but please know that I already see her, feel her, understand her and _know_ her. I also already _love_ her, because I have always loved the woman I have known since I boarded _Shenzhou_ , even when I couldn’t put a name to what I was feeling.”

 

Philippa’s heart swelled almost to bursting, but there was sadness too. “I will have to be that Philippa again for everything ahead—for all the killing and death to come.”

 

“No, you will have to be the Philippa you have _always been_ for the _war_ ahead—for all the _battles_ to come. And you will _always be_ the _Philippa_ I love! Never doubt that.”

 

They made love in the pale morning light; tenderly and passionately, they explored each other until both were sated and ready to face the day.

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from "Pride and Prejudice" by Jane Austen.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to have been away so long, but all the things I "have" to do, to keep body and soul together, have conspired to keep me from all the things I "need" to do to keep body and soul together. 
> 
> Thank you everyone for the wonderful encouragement! Enjoy this chapter!

“Shields to maximum,” Philippa ordered. “Ready the tricobalt devices, Commander Landry.”

 

“Aye captain.”

 

“Lieutenant Stamets, status of the warp engines?” Saru asked as Philippa studied the manoeuvres of the cloaked ships on her command chair’s console.

 

“In good condition, commander, no problems to report so far,” the chief engineer replied over the comm.

 

“Captain, the Klingon fleet is changing course to pursue us,” Owosekun reported.

 

 _“Jesus,”_ Detmer muttered under her breath as the fleet of twelve ships came after them.

 

“Steady as she goes, lieutenant,” Philippa said and the pilot nodded, visibly calming under her captain’s quiet regard. But she understood the young woman’s fear; this was a far larger fleet than they were expecting right out of the gate. Philippa suspected that it was a fleet that hadn’t yet split into its individual task forces, given how close they still were to the Korvat system. Now, they were all coming after her lone ship like a pack of wild dogs baying for the blood of a rabbit that had dared to stray onto their territory. But _Discovery_ was no rabbit; no, she was a wolf … an ancient _dire wolf_ with her own deadly claws and bone-breaking jaws.

 

Michael’s cloak detection system was working even better than expected; instead of _“vaguely circumscribed blobs”_ , as she’d speculated, they were getting fairly good _“bird-of-prey shaped blobs”_ , probably due to the way the cloaking field followed the contours of the ships and the increased resolution afforded by the additional tachyon scans.

 

“Reading three more Klingon ships closing fast on long range sensors,” Owosekun reported. “They’ll be in range within two and a half minutes if we continue on this course.”

 

“Then let’s do this, before they realise that their prey has teeth and is now the predator—we don’t want anyone escaping to ruin the _surprise_ before we’re good and ready,” Philippa said. “Commander Landry, prepare to drop two of our depth charges once the lead ships are within twenty thousand kilometres; Lieutenant Detmer, prepare to take us back on a reciprocal of our course, high on the elliptic—on my mark.”

 

“Aye captain!” both women replied almost in unison.

 

In the dim lighting of the bridge at red alert, the seconds counted down inexorably.

 

“Tricobalt devices away—tracking is good on the Klingon fleet,” Landry reported, her low soprano calm and professional.

 

“Incoming photon torpedoes!” Rhys shouted almost simultaneously.

 

“Phasers on point defense, Mr. Rhys,” Saru ordered.

 

“ _Now_ , Ms Detmer,” Philippa said, gripping the armrests of her chair.

 

“Aye captain!” the young woman sang out and the ship immediately shot straight up, perpendicular to its previous trajectory; given _Discovery’s_ unique construction, she could change orientation and vector almost as nimbly with her warp drive as with her spore drive.

 

The universe paused. Space caught fire in a brief holocaust of roiling energy and metal, before the flames were all sucked away, just moments later, by the hungry, merciless void of space. And just like that, an enemy fleet was annihilated without her ship even having to slow from warp.

 

“Enemy torpedoes destroyed!” Rhys reported, their destruction almost an afterthought.

 

Someone gave a loud cheer and was silenced by Saru with a stern, “Enough! Ready photon torpedoes, Commander Landry,” the Kelpien first officer barked.

 

“Aye sir,” the second officer replied.

 

“Now take us back, Lieutenant Detmer; we’re not done yet,” Philippa ordered, as she put the nearly _4,000 souls_ she’d just consigned to this funeral pyre, out of her mind, along with those she would no doubt add a lot more to the tally before the end of this day.

 

Only two semi-intact ships careened among the wreckage, while the three stragglers, who had been accelerating madly to get in on the fight— _slavering_ to get in on the kill—tried to manoeuvre quickly enough to avoid colliding with the wreckage. The lead ship couldn’t and slid with predictable momentum into the teeth of a churning maelstrom of _hundreds of thousands_ of tons of metal flung out into the void. The small explosions that erupted along its hull paled in comparison.

 

“There are still five ships in my sky, Commander Landry,” Philippa said coldly. “I want them reduced to space dust.”

 

The Klingons gave no quarter, and they had taken to firing on escape pods, unarmed civilian— _non-combatant_ —ships and not to mention, carpet bombing defenseless worlds from orbit as some sort of sick _sport_ , which was preferable to the _atrocities_ they perpetuated on worlds they did _land_ on. She would never touch civilians and non-combatants, but this was _war_ and unless a _warship_ surrendered— _asked_ for mercy—she would _not_ leave a potential enemy to strike at her back.

 

“Aye captain; photon torpedoes are loaded and locked onto targets,” the dark-skinned woman replied.

 

_“Fire!”_

 

There were four spectacular explosions, as the remaining two cloaked ships, as well as two of the wrecks, blew up with one torpedo each. The last wreck was able to raise partial shields, but a second torpedo and phasers made short work of it.

 

“There are no enemy lifesigns among the wreckage, captain,” Saru reported quietly.

 

“And no messages got out that we detected, ma’am,” Bryce followed, looking up from his display. “It looks like the new subspace radio jammers worked.”

 

Philippa nodded, allowing herself a small smile. “Good work everyone; you have my compliments,” she said formally. “Commander Saru, put me on the ship-wide comm.” He nodded wordlessly, indicating that she could begin.

 

“This is the captain speaking. We have just destroyed an enemy fleet of _fifteen_ ships.” There was a roar of jubilation for a full two minutes before she continued, “However, our work here is not yet done. This system boasts one of the enemy’s major shipyards, a research space station, as well as thirty-two cloaked weapons platforms—I do not intend to leave _any_ of them functioning when we jump to our next target. Destroying the installations in this system will deny the enemy the _resources_ they represent. As I said this morning, attend to your stations for our victory, but look to your _crewmates_ for our _purpose!_ Georgiou out.”

 

“Now we just have to figure out how to take out those weapons platforms without them catching on and swatting us after we destroy the first couple, captain,” Saru said drily and Philippa smiled.

 

“Yes, well we do have a _whole_ hour,” she quipped, and while Landry hid her laugh in a discrete cough, the rest of the bridge crew was not so discrete, as relieved—and in some cases, rather hysterical—laughter prevailed for a few moments.

 

“Actually, captain,” came Stamets’ voice from the back of the bridge, as he entered with Michael and Tilly in tow. “Cadet Tilly and Specialist Burnham have come up with a plan.”

 

Philippa smiled, but was careful not to show her relief—though she rather thought Michael saw it anyway. “All right ladies, let’s have it.” Around them the bridge crew looked on with avid interest.

 

Michael smiled and gestured Tilly towards the holo-display as she moved towards the control panel. “It’s your plan cadet,” she told the young redhead.

 

“ _Umm_ … all right,” the girl said, blushing as a schematic of the sphere of platforms surrounding the star system appeared in the display. “All the weapons platforms are _statites_ … _umm_ static satellites fitted with station-keeping engines in a simple Dyson bubble arrangement englobing the system at a uniform radius of approximately one astronomical unit from the star in a pattern of one at the pole, then three in the first latitude, six in the second, then twelve at the equator, then six, three and one at the opposite pole. Captain, the engines ensure they can be cloaked and hold their position in the pattern, so they’re not moving and we know exactly where they are now—” Tilly giggled a little hysterically.

 

“And _umm_ … from what we can tell, they all have their guns pointed outward,” she said pointing at Philippa, then blushing when she realised she’d made ‘gun fingers’ at her captain and hiding her hands behind her back; Philippa laughed inwardly—the cadet was hilarious in an adorable, puppy-like way. “There’s no need for them to point them inward … well, duh … not at themselves—” She giggled nervously again as Michael illustrated a hologram of _Discovery_ racing around, skimming the _‘inside’_ of the sphere as if on an invisible track—spiralling down from the _‘north’_ to the _‘south’_ pole, leaving destruction in her wake.

 

“So, we take them out in a death spiral keeping a distance of about … oh, twenty-five thousand kilometres … yeah, that should do it to keep us in transporter range … on the _inside_ of the sphere and since they don’t have _any_ shields up, we can just beam the new plasma grenades—maybe three or four—into the centre of the null-fields without having to aim and fire phasers and torpedoes would be overkill, not to mention it would really eat into our stores. _Umm_ … it will be pretty dangerous and violates all _kinds_ of safety parameters for transporting, captain; so we should … like go _really_ slow, so we don’t … you know … bump into _anything_ or cause any perturbations this close to a gravity well, but at warp 3 or even warp 2.5, it should take us less than seven minutes to destroy all 32 weapons platforms,” she finished in one rapid gush of words.

 

“Well done, Cadet Tilly!” Philippa praised with a round of applause that the entire bridge crew joined, as the young woman blushed even deeper red. “We will definitely _‘go really slow’_.”

 

“It should only take us about thirty minutes to get everything set up and the transporters programmed, captain,” Michael continued with a smile. “We’ll need to use the main transporter room, as well as the auxiliary transporters in the shuttle bay and main engineering. Any platforms we don’t get on the first pass, we can probably take out with weapon’s fire, depending on the in-system patrol ships’ response times.

 

“As for the shipyard and space station, we think you should take those out _before_ the platforms using the spore drive, captain—I know, I know, sensor ghosts—it’s a calculated risk, but we already _know_ where the platforms are, and as Cadet Tilly said, they don’t move, and we’ve tracked the movements of all the cloaked ships we could find patrolling the system. I estimate it will take the fastest, under optimal conditions, approximately 3.8 minutes to respond once our attack on the inner system begins. The research station is cloaked, but again stationary, so it should be easy to transport a tricobalt device on board, which should serve as a distraction drawing everyone’s attention there and slow down the patrol ships’ response times. We would then jump to the shipyard; it does have shields as it’s large and not cloaked, but I think that beaming a tricobalt device as close to the shield perimeter near one of the shield emitter nodes or a repair bay, if we can find one open, should bring that area’s shields down long enough for us to beam another couple of devices or torpedoes on board. We would then jump out to the first weapon platform at the _‘north’_ pole and start the spiral.”

 

“Cry _‘Havoc!’_ , and let slip the dogs of war,” Ellen Landry quoted with a feral grin.

 

Philippa smiled at her. “Cry _‘Havoc!’_ , indeed; you know your Shakespeare, commander.”

 

“Of course, captain,” she replied with a laugh.

 

“Then let’s be at it, people,” Philippa said, before returning her gaze to Michael and Tilly. “And again, well done ladies!”

 

#

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote is from "Julius Caesar" by William Shakespeare.
> 
>  


	19. Chapter 19

_That was almost too easy_ , Philippa thought as _Discovery_ jumped away from the expanding globe of metal alloys and debris that was once a research space station, housing _5,743_ beings—most Klingon, but including twenty-three Naussicans, eight Orions and one unclassified non-humanoid—according to sensors.

 

Standing in the centre of her bridge, she couldn’t help but feel that she was the grim conductor of a roiling symphony of death and destruction; but wherever she pointed her baton, instead of music, there were explosions and then the silence of the void. Her Science Specialist Burnham and Cadet Tilly certainly had their _‘distraction’_ now; the Klingons were in _complete_ chaos.

 

 _They have become_ smug _and_ complacent _behind their cloaks_ , Philippa realised, _dependent on them now as their first and last line of defense_. _And why not? It is a_ formidable _piece of technology._ They will adapt soon enough, so she must hit them hard enough for them to think twice about continuing this war that _they_ have instigated, now that their major advantage has been neutralised.

 

From the communications chatter that Lieutenant Bryce was deciphering, about half a dozen generals were giving contradictory orders to the in-system patrol fleet, leaving them uncertain of where to go and what to do. Some have set course to converge on the sixth planet, the gas giant with the moon that the research station used to orbit; while most were heading towards the fourth planet, to defend the small colony there with another smaller space station in its orbit—but Philippa has no intention of hitting that station and risking it, or debris from its destruction, falling from orbit on a populated world.

 

_I’m not that far gone yet._

 

A relatively large portion of the in-system fleet have been dispatched to cover the shipyard—its fifteen construction and repair drydocks, as well as twenty docking clusters, each of which has an average of 150 older ships of the Klingon mothballed fleet docked—but they will arrive too late.

 

“Plasma mines confirmed transported into each cluster of ships, the drydocks, fuel tanks and what we believe are weapons storage depots—they’re all on delayed fuses. And we’ve caught a break, captain,” Commander Saru reported from his position near Owosekun’s station. “It looks like the command station is getting ready to launch fighters, so they’ll be dropping shields around the fighter bays.”

 

“Good,” Philippa replied, returning to her seat. “Coordinate with Commander Landry to get the tricobalt devices transported onto the station the _instant_ those shields come down. We don’t want to be here when those go off in addition to the mines.”

 

“Aye captain,” the first officer said smartly as he returned to his post in just four long-legged strides.

 

“Lieutenant Commander Airiam, Lieutenant Detmer, be ready to jump to our next coordinates as soon as transport is complete.”

 

“Engineering is on standby, captain,” Airiam responded briskly. “The Tardigrade is prepped and ready for the jump.”

 

“We will be ready to go to warp 3 as soon as the jump is complete and the spore drive is offline, captain,” Detmer replied.

 

“Transports are complete, captain,” Saru sang out as the first of the Klingon fighters screamed from their launch bays; it had taken them just 3.8 minutes from the moment the system-wide alerts went out—not a bad reaction time, had this been a more _conventional_ attack.

 

“Black alert!” Airiam announced, voice calm and steady. “Jumping now!”

 

As _Discovery_ disappeared into the ether of the mycelial plane, space caught fire in her wake for the third time in less than two hours, consigning another _15,000_ souls to the pyre and over _3,000_ ships either under construction, docked for repairs or mothballed there. The fighters were swept away as station was obliterated in a blinding flash, before fuel tanks and weapon stores detonated all over the sprawling installation, adding their fury to the holocaust.

 

#

 

 _Discovery_ reappeared high on the elliptic, above the plane of the star; the crew no longer cheered their victories, but each continued their tasks briskly and efficiently—all working smoothly together like parts of a well-oiled machine. And looking at each of their somber, professional demeanours now, Philippa couldn’t help but mourn the loss of those bright, earnest … _hopeful_ faces that had entered her bridge only that morning. They were soldiers now. _Warriors_.

 

“Spore drive offline, captain,” Airiam reported. “Warp engines coming online now. Lieutenant Stamets reports that the ship is now _rigged_ for warp.”

 

Philippa allowed herself a smile at the engineer’s _‘nautical’_ joke. “Thank you, commander; take us in, Lieutenant Detmer—warp 3.”

 

“Aye captain, ahead warp factor 3.”

 

“Commander Landry reports that the deployment programs are locked in and the first of the plasma grenades are ready for transport,” Saru reported. “All transporters are manned and ready.”

 

“We should rendezvous with the first platform in approximately 45 seconds,” Owosekun continued smoothly from Saru.

 

“First transport commencing in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1,” Saru counted down. Less than thirty seconds later, the first explosion occurred, followed by a second, third and fourth in rapid succession.

 

“Turning down into the second concentric now, captain,” Owosekun reported, and then a few moments later, “Looks like we only got five of the six this time.”

 

“Dorsal phasers at the ready, Lieutenant Rhys,” Philippa ordered. “Let’s see if we can’t get it on the next downward pass—it should still be at extreme range.”

 

“Aye captain,” Rhys replied, staring intently at his plot. The ship was now tracking on the twelve platforms positioned along the ‘ _equator’_ of the Dyson bubble surrounding the system.

 

Rhys failed to destroy this first target, but he quickly learned to anticipate his captain’s orders and did not fail her on the three in the equatorial ring of platforms that failed to explode with their fellows; even one that should have _theoretically_ been out of phaser range as the ship spiralled down to the first ring in the _‘southern’_ hemisphere.

 

“Three cloaked Klingon warbirds approaching from the inner system at high warp, captain!” Owosekun shouted, before immediately modulating her tone. “Time to intercept—approximately 3.5 minutes for the lead ship.”

 

The ring of platforms began to detonate.

 

“Steady as she goes, Ms Detmer,” Philippa said soothingly to her pilot, and the young woman nodded, without breaking concentration on her display. “They’ve chosen to chase us, rather than heading us off at the most logical juncture of the last platform at the south pole. Their mistake—how soon till we’re in their weapon’s range, Mr. Rhys?”

 

“The lead ship should theoretically be in extreme disrupter range, and certainly in torpedo range, captain,” he said, confusion evident.

 

“Another mistake—Klingon disruptor canons are rather less accurate than our phasers, lieutenant, though quite a bit more powerful,” Philippa explained, knowing that this brief lecture on tactics from the captain would calm not only Rhys, but the entire bridge crew. “Not a very good trade-off, in my opinion; what good is a powerful weapon if it cannot be relied on to _hit_ its target with any consistency or accuracy? And as for torpedoes, given their acceleration curve—”

 

“They are afraid of running into their own torpedoes!” Rhys laughed, catching on quickly.

 

“Bravo, Mr. Rhys!” Philippa praised smiling.

 

“Thirty seconds to point Zulu,” Saru sang out.

 

“Lieutenant Stamets reports that the Tardigrade is being prepped now for spore drive ignition,” Airiam reported. “But the creature appears overly distressed; he recommends staying at warp until it’s a bit calmer.”

 

“Understood, Ms Airiam,” Philippa replied, consulting her display and quickly uploading a new course to the helm. “Lieutenant Detmer, prepare to take us as quickly as possible to warp 9.5 on the course I’ve just uploaded to you.”

 

“Aye captain!”

 

The last four platforms exploded in rapid succession, but just as Discovery pulled out of her spiral, a Klingon disrupter blast found her at last. The ship lurched to starboard, shaking violently.

 

“Report!” Saru barked.

 

“Glancing blow—no damage; aft shields holding at 83%, sir,” Owosekun reported briskly.

 

“Taking us to up to warp 4 now, heading nine-four-seven, mark six,” Detmer began, just as the lead warbird exploded rather spectacularly.

 

“Last two warbirds breaking off pursuit, captain,” Rhys reported with a smile.

 

Philippa swiveled her chair to face him. “Mr. Rhys?”

 

“Uh … he sorta … ran into a torpedo in his way, ma’am,” he said so sheepishly that Philippa couldn’t help but laugh, which sparked off a spate of relieved laughter throughout the bridge.

 

“Indeed, he did,” she quipped. “Well done, Mr. Rhys—well done _everyone!_ ”

 

#

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait - real life with work and then family at Easter had to take precedence. Getting close to the end, and will try to have it finished and posted by the end of the day. I hope you like where I take it.

_“I killed over 35,000 people today.”_

 

The Klingon systems of No’Mat and Ganalda had not been as heavily defended as Korvat, but still, the first had netted them three task forces for ten ships in total, while the latter had added another research station and four ships to the tally. They were again hidden in the Hromi Cluster, breaking for the night and making minor repairs to their shield emitters. But tomorrow, they would add the Khitomer system to this extravagant slaughter, as according to intelligence Lieutenant Bryce had gathered at No’Mat, it was gearing up to be a major staging area for a massive push into Federation space.

 

The pain and guilt formed an almost palpable entity hovering in the air between Philippa and Michael.

 

“ _We_ killed over 35,000 people today,” her love corrected quietly.

 

Walking over to where Philippa sat on the couch, Michael stepped in between her legs, wrapped her arms around her shoulders and bent to place a kiss on the crown of her head. Philippa’s arms tightened about Michael’s waist, before sighing and allowing the tension to flow out of her like water down a drain. She looked up and gave a Michael a small smile.

 

“Thank you, love,” Philippa said hoarsely as she rose, still within the circle of her lover’s arms. “I needed that.”

 

“As did I,” Michael replied, holding her gaze. “It was my theory—and my plan, in part—that have resulted in those casualty figures. Therefore, if you’re going to apportion blame, then you should do so appropriately.”

 

Philippa made to protest, but Michael silenced her with one finger on her lips.

 

“We’ve lost nearly _75,000_ lives since this war began over eleven months ago, Philippa. Does it matter to the _dead_ if those lives were lost over the course of two days or 200? Does it matter if it is the result of one ship or 1,000? Have you or any of our captains deliberately attacked and killed non-combatants … innocent civilians? _Have you carpet-bombed defenseless planets? Committed unspeakable atrocities?_ ” she demanded furiously, and seeing the tears in her bright eyes, Philippa hugged her tightly.

 

“No dearest,” she husked.

 

“That you mourn the lives of our enemy means you’re a good person, Philippa,” Michael said quietly now, “for I doubt they’ve _thought_ to mourn the lives they have taken. In fact, they _celebrate_ their kills and _atrocities_ … _glory_ in them with songs and stories of their bravery and _honour_. For the last eleven months, the Klingons have attacked us with impunity—because they thought themselves invulnerable behind their cloaks. Well, that is no longer the case; in the words of Commander Tucker, _“the bill has come due that they thought they would never have to pay”_ , or in other words, _“Karma is a bitch.”_

 

Philippa couldn’t help but laugh at the incongruous expletive coming from Michael in such wonderfully uninflected _‘Vulcan’_ tones.

 

“That she certainly is, my love; Karma is a _bitch_ , indeed,” she replied, revelling in this moment of closeness, as the horrors of the day receded for the time being.

 

“Hopefully, Commander Landry’s surprise tomorrow morning, in addition to the attack on Khitomer, will also spook them enough to make them stop and ponder how easily we can get into their most secure positions.”

 

“From your mouth to God’s ear, my love.”

 

“Come, let’s get ready for bed,” Michael said softly. Philippa nodded and picking up her carryall, followed her love into the bedroom.

 

Michael headed into the bathroom, while Philippa moved over to the small closet and opened it; beside Michael’s clothing was the suit she’d worn to the party and a spare uniform. Opening her overnight bag, she hung up a few changes of clothing and another uniform.

 

Moving over to the built-in wardrobe, she pulled out the top drawer; grinning at her corset and a few underwear next to Michael’s underthings, she added the more standard Starfleet issue selections she’d brought.

 

As she closed the drawer again, she heard Michael call invitingly, “Do you want to _join_ me, Philippa?”

 

Philippa chuckled, thinking _why not_ and grabbed her toiletry case from the nightstand. She undressed quickly and stepped into the shower, cupping Michael’s breasts from behind, enjoying the soft, warm weight of them and laying her head on the back of her shoulder. Rubbing her thumbs over the erect nipples, she drew a gasp from her love. Philippa smiled and ran her hands lightly down Michael's toned abdomen as the hot water sluiced over them. Michael turned in her arms, taking Philippa's hands and kissing them, a sweet smile hovering on her lips. Pulling Philippa closer, she leaned in and kissed her, tongues sliding against each other in an erotic dance that mirrored their bodies’ intimate dance.

 

She gasped in delight as Michael gently began to lather her body, her skin suddenly incredibly sensitive under the ministrations of the bath puff, and the voluptuous sensations she created were almost overwhelming.

 

"Oh Michael!" she breathed heavily. "Please …"

 

Philippa was already swollen with heavy arousal by the time her love’s questing fingers parted the lips of her sex and penetrated her, as her thumb played on her sensitive clit. She loved the exquisite sensation of the cold tiles against her back, the sumptuous heat of the water and steam, and moaned softly, as her love broke the kiss, lavishing her concentration on Philippa’s moist, aroused sex as she found Philippa’s G-spot. Biting her lip to contain her cries, she clung to Michael as she rode those wonderfully _insistent_ fingers.

 

Michael captured her mouth again, their love dancing on the fringes of Philippa’s consciousness as she soared over the edge in a fast, hard, climactic release.

 

#

 

Philippa lay in bed ostensibly reading Saru’s after-action report, while Michael moved through the fluid, yet restrained katas of a Vulcan martial art, which drew Philippa’s attention far more than the report.

 

She was lethargic and content, after their bout of lovemaking in the shower. She smiled at the memory of Michael’s needy vocalisations that spiralled through at least an octave as Philippa, on her knees, had worshiped at her altar.

 

 _My love has a beautiful voice for sex or for singing_.

 

Michael had been hot and wild and uninhibited. Philippa loved to watch her love in the throes of passion; she gave herself so honestly to her emotions.  There was no coyness … no subterfuge … and for one who normally was so fastidious about her appearance, she was always surprisingly free and open in her approach to sex and all its messiness. 

 

After reading the same passage for yet a third time and gaining no meaning from it, she gave up and placed the PADD on the nightstand.

 

 _There will be time later for analysis of our relative efficiency in killing our enemy_.

 

Now, she simply snuggled down into her pillow and watched Michael move through another set repetition, that look of intense concentration on her face, as she worked the limbs on the right side of her body, before moving onto the left.

 

It was like dancing in a way, and the repetitiveness of it reminded her of all those years of barre work during her ballet training, though it was probably more akin to her training in Chinese martial arts—most notably, _Wing Chun_.

 

“That is not _Suus Mahna_ ,” she observed, recognising that it was not in the style of the ancient Vulcan martial art that Michael was adept in.

 

“Not enough room in here,” Michael replied softly, as she dropped to a crouch, extending her left leg, keeping it parallel to the floor, while turning her straight torso to her right. “This is _Sha’mura_ ; I practise it for relaxation and mental discipline.”

 

Michael was wearing only a black tank top and a matching pair of shorts; Philippa was mesmerised by the play of disciplined muscles rippling under her dark skin.

 

“Add music and you would be dancing, my love,” she said smiling as Michael rose gracefully and pivoted on the ball of her right foot, precisely bringing down the left then leaning forward, pulling her bent arms back by jerking her elbows up, before straightening, again lifting her left foot, and pivoting in the opposite direction, planting it precisely at one hundred and eighty degrees from the previous step to repeat the movements.

 

“Music would distract me,” Michael replied, coming back to her original pose of feet together and arms at her sides with cupped palms facing up. “ _You_ distract me—I barely made it through one cycle,” she complained.

 

“Glad to be of service,” Philippa chuckled, “but I still think you should consider it—I often play music when I’m exercising.”

 

“I will _think_ about it.”

 

“Good, now come to bed, dearest; we have another long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

 

Michael nodded, then sat on the edge of the bed, opened the drawer of the nightstand and withdrew a small, flat metal box with a glass cover.

 

“Happy Birthday,” she said, surprising Philippa as she stretched out beside her and offered her the box. “I know that your birthday is not for another six days, but I can’t wait,” she said with an adorably excited expression. “You’re a terrible influence on me—you make me so _impatient_ now.”

 

Philippa laughed as she sat up and accepted the box, then leaned in to kiss Michael; to tell the truth, she’d forgotten about her birthday.

 

“Thank you, love,” she husked softly.

 

Philippa looked down through the transparent lid; inside, nestled in the white cushioning, was Michael’s Vulcan IDIC, its platinum and red gold elements gleaming among the large links of a chain made of at least five different metals, given their hues; she’d last seen the badge in the care hamper Amanda had sent. With trembling fingers, she opened the box; it was a bracelet, with the IDIC anchored asymmetrically on each side to the links, while the central jewel hovered directly over the chain. On closer inspection, Philippa saw that each link was in the shape of an infinity symbol.

 

 _“Oh Michael,”_ she whispered as she admired its beautiful simplicity.

 

“Airiam makes jewellery in her spare time,” Michael explained as she removed the bracelet from the box and clasping it around Philippa’s wrist with a simple mechanical catch. “I was upset at first when Sarek sent it; but after you gave me the Soulstone and with your birthday coming up … I wanted to give you something special. When I saw this style of chain among her stock after your speech, it seemed like serendipity—if I _believed_ in serendipity, that is.”

 

She chuckled softly and bit her lip uncertainly. Philippa barely remembered her speech, so she’d been rather surprised at it when she’d viewed the recording of it later; it was a rather good one, if she did say so herself—well, she’d been rather _inspired_ that day. And she immediately understood the underlying meaning behind the bracelet; _Infinite Strength_.

 

 _“We_ know _that there is_ strength in diversity _and there is_ infinite diversity in infinite combinations _, and therefore,_ infinite strength _to be found in embracing our_ diversity …”

 

“It’s beautiful!” Philippa said surging into her arms and kissing her again; the metal was cool against her skin and it had a comforting heaviness. “And I _do_ believe in serendipity, and it is the most wonderful and _serendipitous_ gift. Thank you!”

 

“You’re welcome; I’m glad you like it.” Michael snuggled down and pulled Philippa on top of her, kissing her deeply. “Goodnight, Philippa.”

 

“Goodnight, my love,” Philippa said, her heart filled with joy, and as she laid her head against Michael’s shoulder, she realised that in the middle of _grinding war_ , this is the _happiest_ she has ever been.

 

#

 


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not getting this up last night - ran out of steam. The final chapter will also be up later tonight.

“… and Michael believes that bringing up the phasic shielding, as an addition to the deflector shield matrix, will add a layer of protection against not only the mines, but many other ordinances as well,” Cadet Tilly reported over the comm. “She, Lieutenant Stamets and Lieutenant Harrington are working on the conversion now.”

 

“Conversion cadet?” Landry demanded.

 

“Uh … yeah commander,” the girl replied. “We don’t use them together—phasic shields on the mycelial plane and deflector shields in normal space. We added the phasic shielding to the ship’s shield array to protect _Discovery_ from another anomalous Hawking radiation firewall—like the one that damaged the _Glenn_ and killed the crew when it exited the mycelial plane—and other anomalies. Really, they shouldn’t have tried such long jumps without it, but initially they—and we—only had the phasic shielding around the lab and drive cube, mainly to keep from losing the spore supply to the mycelial plane each time we jumped, and later to keep the Tardigrade from escaping. Anyway, we have to reconfigure the switching program and power flow so the ship’s phasics can come online in n-space. Deflector shields are no good in m-space … umm, mycelial space—” They heard Stamets bellow the young woman’s name. “Sorry, gotta go now, ma’am—Tilly out.”

 

 _“Brilliant,”_ Philippa breathed, in awe of how quickly Michael came up with ways to re-task their technology in unique approaches that few people would think of.

 

“That she is, captain,” Saru said turning his attention back to his display, smiling to himself. “Commander Landry, those ships are closing fast; target Task Force Omega with photon torpedoes as they come into range, let’s try and end this before they get here.”

 

“Aye sir, torpedoes ready.”

 

“Fire,” Saru ordered.

 

“Torpedoes away.”

 

Philippa watched the tiny points of light race towards their targets. The ships exploded, whiting out the screens for a moment.

 

“Direct hits,” Landry confirmed. “Task Force Omega destroyed.” A moment later she called, “Forward torpedo launch tubes down! Pre-fire chambers over-heated, captain—PO Qamaniq estimates approximately four minutes before they’re operational again.”

 

“Understood commander,” Philippa replied automatically as she worked on her chair’s console, not bothering to tell her to get them back ASAP; Landry knew what she was about. The Klingons however, were becoming more cautious about engaging her lone ship, as evidenced by the other two task forces’ wary approach after the rapid destruction of Beta, Gamma, Delta and Omega forces.

 

“Lieutenant Detmer, take us on a heading of nine-four-seven, mark six—warp eight,” Philippa ordered. “We’ll engage Task Force Alpha at point blank, attack pattern gamma five—drive them into the mines!”

 

“Aye, Captain Georgiou,” Detmer replied. “Attack pattern gamma five.”

 

“Rapid-fire phaser bolt barrage, Mr. Rhys; all forward phaser banks,” Philippa called to the young tactical officer. “Let’s keep them distracted—perhaps even destroy one or two. I don’t want them seeing the minefield until it’s too late.”

 

“Aye captain, phaser banks report ready—barrage commencing now!”

 

Landry had come up with this new innovation, in response to the phaser beams’ relative ineffectiveness during high-warp manoeuvres.

 

The lead Klingon ship in largest hunt pack, bucked as it was peppered with no less than fifty bolts of phased energy in less than a minute and became visible before exploding spectacularly.

 

Philippa could almost feel the palpable surprise of the other six enemy commanders in the task force as Detmer took the ship into a number of fast, random, corkscrewing rolls that made _Discovery_ hellishly hard to hit, yet spread the phaser bolt barrage to all enemy ships. When a second ship fell out of formation, its nacelles a smoking ruin, the others broke off, turning to flee—right into the jaws of her trap.

 

“Phasic shielding on-line, captain,” Stamets called breathlessly over the comm.

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant Stamets,” Philippa replied.

 

“And not a minute too soon,” Landry observed. “Captain, I’m reading a terminal build-up of the plasma reactants in response to the proximity of the Klingon cloaks.”

 

“Hold course, Lieutenant Detmer, take us through—phasic shielding to maximum,” Philippa ordered. She gripped the armrests of her chair as _Discovery_ shook violently from the explosion of the plasma mines that destroyed the Klingon ships.

 

“Task Force Alpha has been destroyed, captain,” Landry dutifully reported.

 

“Task Force Epsilon is fleeing back to the Khitomer system—warp eight,” Owosekun said, taking over the litany of reports. “The lagging enemy ships have also reversed course back to the system—warp five. We have minor damage to decks four and six, as well as the port nacelle, captain—containment fields are holding and repair crews have been dispatched. One casualty reported from engineering—” Philippa’s heart stopped; only years of experience kept her fear from her face. “Lieutenant Harrington received severe burns to her hands while adjusting a plasma conduit flow. Dr. Culber reports that she should make a full recovery.”

 

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Philippa replied as she worked out a new heading on her console, keeping the relief from her voice that it was not Michael. Their casualties had been thankfully light since the start of operations in Klingon territory—only thirty-three personnel injured … thirty-four now—most were minor injuries so far, and there had been no deaths; she aimed to keep it that way. “Stand down red alert, Commander Saru. Lieutenant Detmer take us to warp eight and hold course on the heading I’ve just uploaded to you,” Philippa ordered, brushing a lock of hair, that had fallen out of her ponytail, back from her face as the normal lighting came up.

 

“Aye captain; increasing speed to warp factor eight on a course of three-eight-seven mark five.”

 

“Lieutenant Stamets,” she called, connecting with engineering. “How soon can we rig for a jump back to the Hromi Cluster?”

 

It was time to regroup and consider their next move. They didn’t get as much done at Khitomer as she would have liked, but five task forces destroyed for a total of 27 ships were nothing to sneeze at and it was probably better to get the data home now than risk further damage.

 

“At least fifteen minutes, captain,” the engineer replied. “The Tardigrade is becoming more agitated with each jump and still appears to be in some distress from our last one. Dr. Culber and Specialist Burnham are looking after it now.”

 

“Understood lieutenant, keep us updated,” Philippa replied. “Lieutenant Detmer, we will continue on this course until ready to jump.”

 

“Aye captain.”

 

“No cloaked Klingon ships detected ahead within scanning range, captain,” Owosekun reported.

 

“Thank you, Ms Owosekun.”

 

“Captain, Lieutenant Bryce has an interesting report,” Saru said smiling at her from his position near the communications station.

 

“Lieutenant?”

 

“Yes ma’am, there is a lot of comm chatter about _demon ships_ and the dishonourable _“Servants of Fek’lhr”_ being in league with the Federation,” Lieutenant Bryce said with a grin. “From what I can tell, that’s like the head _demon_ of Gre’thor—pretty much the _Devil_ , captain.”

 

Philippa laughed. “I’ve been called worse, lieutenant.”

 

“Anyway, it sounds like they’re delaying the push into Federation space, ma’am,” he continued with a wide grin and there was a cheer from Lieutenants Rhys and Detmer. “General Krola of House Bah’Roth is really worried and pretty weirded-out about our knowing about their movements at Khitomer, not to mention the gifts we left this morning at Qo’noS—especially those we set down on the front lawn of the Imperial Palace—and our handiwork yesterday at Korvat … what with all the ships we’ve destroyed in such a short time. Some are starting to believe we can see through their cloaks, but no one can give the General any answers on how we’re doing it, and he wants to withdraw their fleet back to protect Qo’noS. Another faction, led by House Duras and House D’Ghor, insists it’s impossible to see through the cloaks and that there must be Federation spies in their midst feeding us information. Meanwhile, General Herok of House Mo’Kai still wants to invade Federation space, but he insists on first bringing in _“mind-sifters”_ —telepaths to ensure their warriors’ loyalty to the Empire. Anyway, it doesn’t look like they’ve figured out that their cloak interferes with their communications dampening in the lower subspace radio bands.”

 

“Outstanding, Mr. Bryce!” Philippa praised. “Let’s hope that it stays that way for the time being and that this _Devil_ has frightened them into staying put for a while—at least until we can get this information back to the fleet and get our ships upgraded with the new sensors and weapons.”

 

“Given how effective they were against the plasma mines’ discharge,” Saru said thoughtfully. “Starfleet may also want to add phasic shielding to the upgrades of our conventional ships.”

 

“One thing at a time, Commander Saru,” Philippa chided. “Let’s not run ahead of ourselves—that would involve a major refit our ships may not be able to afford at the moment. It’s not as easy as the new sensors, which will be a simple addition that can fit into our current sensor housings—even the oldest ones.”

 

“While for the weapons, it’s only a matter of manufacturing new ordinance—and disseminating the new tactical and operational doctrines,” Landry continued. “Each captain and ship will then build on that and refine them as they go.”

 

“Exactly commander,” Philippa replied.

 

“With this, Starfleet may even have the incentive to get the _USS Glenn_ back into service,” Landry speculated, thinking of their damaged sister-ship that had originally captured the Tardigrade. “Even if only confined to warp for now, it would be invaluable to the war—”

 

There was a sudden jolt as the ship shuddered around them—as if it _hit_ something! Philippa clung to her chair as the ship bucked hard to starboard, and for an awful moment, everything went black.

 

Forcing her head to move as the ship lurched to a stop and light returned, she saw that Keyla Detmer was slumped over her console, while Joann Owosekun was holding on to hers for dear life.

 

“Report!” Philippa barked. “What was that? Did we hit something?”

 

“Cap-captain,” Airiam stuttered uncharacteristically. “The spore drive activated spontaneously while we were at _warp_ —and we-we’ve stopped somewhere on the mycelial plane!”

 

 _“What?”_ Philippa gasped in disbelief as Saru picked himself up off the deck near communications. “Bridge to engineering—Lieutenant Stamets, come in.”

 

There was dead silence. “Lieutenant Stamets, come in!” she shouted, but still there was no answer.

 

“Captain,” Landry said urgently. “The area we were passing through is the general vicinity in which the _Glenn_ had reported they’d captured the Tardigrade, ma’am!”

 

The hairs on the back of Philippa’s neck rose.

 

“Commander Saru, you have the bridge; Commander Landry, you’re with me,” she ordered, running towards the turbolift, with the security chief at her heels. “Saru have security, medical and repair teams meet us in engineering.”

 

“Aye captain!”

 

“Stamets to the bridge,” came the engineer’s shaken voice and Philippa jolted to a stop. “Captain, you’d better get down here—it’s Specialist Burnham … the Tardigrade—the Tardigrade has attacked her!”

 

The world stopped and her vision tunnelled.

 

_I have to get to Michael!_

 

Philippa felt as if all air had been forcibly ejected from her lungs, and her heart threatened to explode in her chest. She was aware of Landry speaking to her, but she couldn’t process what she was saying.

 

_I have to get to Michael!_

 

Then the world started again and suddenly everything was entirely too loud and too bright with screams. She tried to run, fighting to get out of Landry’s grip.

 

_I have to get to Michael!_

 

“… emergency transport of the captain and myself to main engineering,” Landry was shouting as she held onto a struggling Philippa tightly.

 

“Standby commander,” replied Ensign Garcia. “Transport lock on Captain Georgiou and your lifesigns achieved. Emergency intra-ship transport commencing.”

 

They materialized in engineering, which was at once both chaotic and strangely silent.

 

Inside the transparent drive cube, Michael stood with her head bowed and her back to the alien Tardigrade … then Philippa realised that her feet were not touching the ground. Michael was suspended before the creature, its bloody front claws dug into her sides in a hideous parody of the drive rods that Philippa had authorised her engineers to impale its body with in order to enslave it to her ship.

 

_“Get her out of there!”_

 

#


	22. Chapter 22

_“Commander! Keep her back!”_ Michael’s agonised voice cut through the din as Philippa struggled to get to her.

 

The puddle of red was spreading around her; still the Tardigrade held her in its deadly embrace, its claws piercing her sides. Sensory cells extruded neural tendrils beyond the exoskeletal bristles all over the creature’s body to contact her face and exposed skin, burrowing through hair and clothing. Each contact point glowed blue-white and Philippa could see the bright veins, beneath her love’s dark skin, radiating from each point, carrying some sort of _‘ichor’_ , as Dr. Culber explained hurriedly, from the creature deeper into Michael’s body. Around them glowing motes of the mycelial spores wirled as if blown about in a tornado.

 

 _“No, no, no!”_ Philippa cried, with a vicious blow to Landry’s ribs, but still the woman held fast.

 

 _“Philippa, stop!”_ Michael shouted in agony. “She’s a _mother_ , Philippa,” she whimpered hoarsely, lifting her glowing eyes to meet Philippa’s; over her shoulder, the Tardigrade roared and writhed like some weird, living backpack. “She has a nest of babies—we st-stole her from her _babies_ , and she just wants to go _home_. She was only looking for food and mistook the _Glenn’s_ cache of spores for a rich natural source. _Please_ , let me take her home.”

 

Philippa stopped struggling and looked up at Landry, silently pleading; her security chief understood, sad eyes brimming as she released her and stepped back.

 

“And you, Michael?” she asked, voice trembling with dread and tears as she approached the drive cube, bracing her hands against the transparent wall separating them.

 

“There is a price for everything, love.”

 

At the acceptance in her love’s eyes and in her voice, Philippa’s heart shattered and she gave an anguished howl, beating her fists against the wall

 

 _Michael is the price for_ my _crimes._

 

“We had no right to keep her here, Philippa,” Michael pleaded. “Please let me take her home before it’s too late. If I don’t go now, we risk all life on this ship— _all life_ on our entire plane of existence! The jumping we’ve done is damaging her and damaging the mycelial plane, but the beings that dwell there are not without recourse—the network extends to every omnicordial _universe_ … every _plane_ of each _omnicord_ … connecting all, and though it will cause them great pain to do so, they can—and will—withdraw all connections from _this_ reality to _protect the whole!_ And if they do that, all _life_ on this plane will eventually wither and _die_.

 

“The Hawking radiation firewall _wasn’t_ an accident, Philippa—it wasn’t an _accident_ that it killed _all_ biological life on board the _Glenn_ , except for the Tardigrade. The most powerful of the inhabitants of the mycelial plane sent it in an effort to free her; he knew it would _kill_ us, but it wouldn’t _hurt_ her!”

 

“All right … all right, love, we will take her home,” Philippa replied, swallowing her sobs, “but we will do it together!”

 

_“Philippa?”_

 

“I will _not_ let you go _again_ where I cannot follow, Michael— _please_ don’t ask it of me,” she begged. “If you must stand and accept the judgement of this _being_ for our crimes, then so must I, love; for _I am_ ultimately responsible! I gave the order to continue using her, even after you reported that she might be sentient and that she was in pain—and to my shame, I knew long before that it was a possibility.”

 

“Oh, Philippa,” she whispered in despair.

 

“Bravely together, Michael.”

 

“Bravely together, Philippa.”

 

“Lieutenant Stamets, please unlock the door to the spore drive cube,” she ordered.

 

The pale man nodded sadly and began to explain, “I can’t captain, the Tardigrade—”

 

Silently, the door opened, but neither the creature or the spores moved to escape.

 

 _“Captain, you are distraught!”_ Saru shouted, long fingers wrapping about her wrist as she started to climb in.

 

 _Where did he come from?_ she wondered distantly. _He’s supposed to be on the bridge_.

 

“Captain Georgiou, you are _not_ thinking clearly.”

 

She turned to face him; his throat pouches quivered with fear.

 

 _Fear for me and for Michael_ , she realised.

 

“Will you mutiny against me, Saru?” she asked gently and he stepped back with wide-eyed shock, releasing her hand as if burned. “My _only_ purpose now, my friend, is to save my _herd_ , my _world_ … my _Federation_ from the consequences of _my crime_ ; please allow me to do so.” He nodded, devastation in his expressive blue eyes. “If we are unable to, it will be up to you and Commander Landry to get _everyone_ home to Starfleet Command as quickly as possible, and to transmit the scanning parameters and data to Admirals Cornwell and Picard.”

 

“Understood, Captain Georgiou,” he said, pulling himself up to attention; she reached out and squeezed his hand, before stepping into the spore-filled chamber.

 

“Co-Com-mander Saru,” Michael called hoarsely; it was obviously becoming harder for her to speak. “Set … exit co-ordinates … Earth, drop phasic shield … and with … d-draw … drive rods from … Tar-di-grade.”

 

“Understood, Commander Burnham,” he replied with an infinite gentleness in his voice. “Bring her back safely—come back safely, both of you.”

 

Michael smiled tremulously at him with tears in her brightly glowing eyes and nodded.

 

Moving swiftly to stand in front of Michael, Philippa grasped her hands; they were unnaturally cold as she laced their fingers together. She gasped at the sensation of ice crystalizing in her fingers, quickly surging up her arms like frozen lightning—a faint blue-white glow traced the spider-webs of capillaries beneath her skin.

 

“Sorry … l-love,” Michael whispered, “Th-this will _hurt_.”

 

“And I am sorry that I didn’t listen to you earlier,” she replied sadly as the coldness engulfed her heart and she leaned in to kiss her love.

 

The world around them dissolved and they plunged into the Black, where only Michael—and the Tardigrade with a maelstrom of spores, spinning about them like the great wheel of the galaxy—remained.

 

 _We go_.

 

Michael’s voice inside her mind guided her deeper; lungs burning, heart aching, she gathered all her strength, and concentrating on her love, clung to her with all her might, even as the force of the whirling maelstrom threatened to tear them apart. She instinctively knew that if she lost contact with Michael, her love would be lost to her _forever_.

 

Around them faint music swirled and surged with the spores, growing louder by the moment—each point of light adding its own note to the symphony of the whole, and she understood at that instant that each spore was a _star_ , and each star … a _spore_ ; a potential for bringing forth _life_.

 

The Tardigrade disappeared, in a lightning crack of plasma discharge that seared the stars themselves with her rage and pain.

 

Philippa’s lungs burned with the agony of it.

 

She opened her mouth to speak, but the music flooded into her, filling her painfully to bursting as she and Michael fell through the singularity at the centre of that galaxy, spinning faster, ever _faster_ —pulling in the stars themselves with the strength of their gravity. She gazed fearfully into Michael’s eyes; they were as wide and frightened as her own no doubt were, but as Philippa watched, they softened. She felt the younger woman pull her even closer, until it felt like every cell in their bodies were touching.

 

As Michael’s face drew inevitably closer, her eyes said _“trust me”_ and Philippa surrendered … _her fear … her pain … her love … her soul …_

 

Michael’s lips fell onto hers, lush and soft, but in the eternity of that moment, it felt as if their lips were inexorably fused … and as they fell faster and faster, Philippa lost all sense of where she ended and Michael began.

 

The pain and the pressure and the _music_ , filling every cell of her body, rose to exquisite agony and … _exploded!_

 

 _We go …_ Philippa accepted at last. _Bravely together! We go …_

 

 

The End

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to nomisunrider and everyone for the amazing inspiration and encouragement throughout this story! For me, writing has always been a solitary process, and it's wonderful to know I'm not alone. 
> 
> I hope you like where I've taken the story; it seemed appropriate to end here and like this. I struggled a bit with it, but my first ending seemed rushed and hollow ... therefore, there will be third story in the series. I've started it, but I don't anticipate starting to post at least until May or June. I know where I want Michael and Philippa to go, but it may take me awhile to get them there! LOL!!!
> 
> And nomisunrider, I'm still waiting anxiously for the next chapter in "Across the Stars"!


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